


losing my religion

by astrangecupoftea



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anya & Lexa (The 100) Are Siblings, Catholic School, Clexa, F/F, F/M, Fine Stud Lexa, HSAU, Hate to Love, High School, M/M, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn Clarke Griffin/Lexa, kind of fine stud lexa?, there's blazers involved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7473705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangecupoftea/pseuds/astrangecupoftea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa Woods smokes her Marlboro's behind church before every morning mass, and comes in smelling of cinnamon from the Big Red she chews to mask the scent lingering on her tongue. Clarke Griffin has always known the girl is a walking, talking bad idea.</p><p>--</p><p>The Catholic School HSAU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. say hello on a day like today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done it again. Fourth WIP, you have permission to roast me now. See you at the bottom for an explanation of why I do these things to myself.
> 
> Also, I've made a couple of Polyvore sets for this story because why not. If you want to check Clarke and Lexa out, it's at b-summers.polyvore.com

The morning air is so crisp with cold that it burns her throat as she inhales, and she wishes she had worn her fucking tights like Anya had told her to this morning. At least she’s got her blazer; long and black and tight on her forearms but loose in the places it needs to be, like right over her bicep where a pack of Marlboro’s, lighter and Big Red are neatly tucked away.

  
She locks her car as she walks, twirling her keys around her finger as she makes the short distance from the nearly full parking lot, down a short concrete sidewalk to the track – all completely devoid of people. She spares a glance at her watch quickly: 8:46AM. If she were still a freshman, wide-eyed and eager, she would have had her ass firmly planted in the dark polished wood of a pew by now, head bowed and waiting for 9:00 mass to start; now, however, Lexa Woods is a fully jaded junior.  
  
Her sneakers pat-pat-pat against the red and black striped track and her feet carry her quickly to her destination, stepping up the short incline of a grassy hill with ease. She steps just past a medium-sized bush and under a large tree, heavy branches drooping and pats faded old wood as an instinct as she flops down carelessly, crossing her legs.  
  
“What’s up, Darlene?”  
  
There’s no reply. There wouldn’t be, because Darlene is just a dedication plaque on a slightly moldy bench… or maybe she actually is the bench. Or maybe she’s neither, which is what Lexa sometimes likes to think – that Darlene is there, non-corporeal and sitting beside her, silently having a cigarette and listening to the faint chirping of the crows that built their nests in the leaves looming overhead.  
  
Anya likes to remind her that the reality is probably none of the above - that according to the plaque Darlene Abbott-Smithe was born in 1923 and died in 2003, and she was probably a church lady who came to mass every Sunday. And according to the plaque her sons, David and Nathaniel, will miss her and love her and still inevitably forget that this bench ever existed. They’ll stop coming by and the paint will chip and moss will grow, and a while later a girl will find it and she’ll realize that no one visits Darlene any more, making it the perfect secluded spot to smoke before class.  
  
Lexa puts the cigarette between her lips and covers the end with her hand as she lights it. She briefly wonders if the sound of the paper burning and the tip igniting ember-orange will ever stop being satisfying as she inhales, letting the warm smoke fill her lungs. She shivers, the chill ebbing away a bit, and leans back against the mossy wood.  
  
Her eyes scan what she can see of the school campus from her secluded, slightly musty little sanctuary – the end of the parking lot and the short sidewalk, a small portion of the curve of the track and the shotput cage that no one has used for a good three decades.

She checks her watch again – it’s taken some practice, but she has it down to a science. There’s just enough time to finish, run the pack and lighter back to her car, straighten herself up and sneak into the nave before Father Titus starts the morning prayers. She’ll be a minute late, but her favorite sophomore Aden is always on altar boy duty for Tuesdays and he always finds an excuse to hold the door for a minute longer – enough time for her to hop over the waist-high fence separating the school grounds from the church grounds and sneak through the tall, carved wooden doors before he shuts them behind her.

Lexa knows she should probably try to make an effort for just this one day, the first mass of the school year, but the thought leaves her mind just as quickly as it came – she’s a fucking _junior_ now. She’s earned the right to be reckless.  
  
A flash of someone striding quickly down the sidewalk catches her eye and she rolls her eyes a little at the sight.  
  
The girl is tugging on her black stockings while she walks. Her hair is loose and flopping in front of her face, wavy golden tendrils obscuring her vision. She attempts to blow it away from her eyes to no avail, flicking her head back.  
  
There’s a funny little familiar feeling in Lexa’s chest that she pushes down, far away so she can’t reach it. She chooses not to linger on the fact that she only knows it’s familiar because it happens _every fucking time_ she’s around the blonde. She gets up from the bench, stepping around the bushes and leaning a shoulder against the large trunk of the tree.  
  
“Clarke Griffin, late for morning mass,” she says with a ‘tsk’, shaking her head. The girl looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing as they lock on Lexa. “Sister Diana might have to revoke your perfect attendance certificate.”  
  
Clarke pushes up the sleeves of her grey cardigan and crosses her arms against her chest. Lexa raises an eyebrow at the show of indignation and she tries to keep her mouth from lifting up into a smile at the sight, she _really_ does – but she can see how she's trying not to display her aggravation and it’s all too amusing.  
  
“Lexa Woods, smoking behind a church like the burn-out she is,” she retorts, and Lexa can’t help the sharp cough of a humorless laugh that bubbles out.  
  
“ _Right_ , ‘burn-out’… tell me again, does the definition of a _‘burn-out’_ include maintaining a perfect GPA? We’re both in the same AP English class this year, _again_. Could you refresh my memory?” she responds, placing her hand on her chest. “I swear I can keep up.”  
  
Clarke’s cheeks turn a satisfying shade of pink and Lexa can’t stop the half-smirk that stretches across her mouth. She takes a drag and raises an eyebrow in challenge.  
  
The other girl scoffs, reaching up as if to tie her hair back and stops, her hand patting against her wrist. A frustrated sigh escapes seemingly before she can stop it.  
  
“Need a hand?” Lexa says, letting the cigarette rest between her lips as she pulls a blue tie from around her wrist. She holds it up, pinched between her thumb and pointer finger.  
  
She’s sure Clarke is going to decline the offer, replying with a snide remark; instead, she holds her hand out with one arm still crossed against her chest, the tip of her black oxfords tapping against the track. Lexa throws and watches as Clarke catches it easily and makes quick work of putting her hair into a low bun, pieces of hair falling out and around her face.  
  
“I hope you aren’t deluded enough to think I’m going to thank you,” she says, smoothing down the front of her grey plaid pleated skirt with her palms.  
  
“Didn’t think so. You’re welcome anyway, Princess,” Lexa retorts.  
  
There’s a loud scoff and she opens her mouth to say something back, but the sound of the church bells ringing out cuts her off. Both her and Lexa’s eyes widen - how had time slipped by so quickly? Clarke takes off, her steps quick against the ground as she sprints down the track and through an opening of the gate, leading to a walkway in front of the church.  
  
Lexa turns back to the bench, taking one last long puff before dropping the still-smoldering end to the ground, crunching it into the dirt and dry leaves with the toe of her shoe. She pulls the pack of gum from her pocket and unwraps a piece, throwing the small rectangle of shiny red foil to the ground. There is absolutely no time to go back to her car and stash her things away, so she stows the pack and lighter under the bench and kicks a few leaves on top to hide it even further.  
  
The bell stops ringing out as Lexa hops over the fence with ease, running up to the double doors.  
  
“ _Fuck!_ ”  
  
The entrance is closed, the faint murmuring of prayer vibrating against the solid wood.  
__  
With no other choice left, Lexa tentatively pushes against the door, her teeth chewing at her bottom lip. One hand on the knob and the other resting with her palm against the wood, she sneaks through the crack, breathing a sigh of relief when she notices Father Titus is at the pulpit, his head bent in prayer as he speaks evenly into the microphone. __  
  
“Receive, O Holy Trinity, one God, this Holy Sacrifice of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which I, your unworthy servant…”  
  
Aden is still by the door, his hands clasped together in front of him. His eyes broaden so much Lexa thinks they might bulge out of his head and he scurries over to her, his robes billowing behind him as he walks.

“You _closed the door_?” she hisses, her head bent down so she’s eye-level with the boy.  
  
“ _No_!” he says, shaking his head and holding his hands in front of him. “Well, yes. But I _had_ to close them, I had no choice. She – I was _threatened_.”  
  
“ _Threatened_? By _who_?”  
  
“Clarke Griffin.”  
  
Lexa sighs hard, her hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose.  
  
“I’ll let you off this time. It happens again, though, and I’m telling your brother about – ”  
  
“ _Okay, okay_ ,” he whines. “I get it.”  
  
She turns, spotting the back of Anya’s bowed head easily four rows in from the back and starts toward it. She’s nearly to her destination when Lexa sees her, golden hair twisted at the nape of her neck in the pew one behind and to the right of hers. She stops to bend down, a hand resting against the back of the bench. Clarke freezes, her back straightening even as her eyes look to the floor. Lexa leans closer, the loose strands of the girl’s hair brushing against the tip of her nose.  
  
“My move now, Princess.”  
  
Lexa stands and moves quickly down the aisle, crossing herself before sliding in beside Anya.  
  
“Cutting it a little close there, Lex. What took you so long?” Anya whispers under her breath.  
  
She can feel eyes on the back of her head, burning into her with red-hot irritation.  
  
“Lost track of time.”  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

 

“Another year, another hour of trying not to conk out in class after morning mass. Father Vin Diesel has chosen the wrong profession – he could make a killing as a hypnotist.”  
  
Lexa lets out a little snort, swinging her worn leather messenger bag over her shoulder and shutting her locker.  
  
“I don’t want to hear it, An. You’ve got one more year then you’re free.”  
  
Anya scoffs. “Yeah, but knowing I’m almost out of here makes it drag more than usual.”  
  
“A watched kettle never boils.”  
  
“ _A bad metaphor never helps_ ,” the girl retorts with a sarcastic smile.  
  
“Touché.”  
  
The halls are crowded, with no one in a particular rush to get to class. Her first lesson went by painfully slowly and she was itching to leave by the time the bell mercifully rang.  
  
“Oh, shit – I left my smokes with Darlene,” Lexa remembers with a jolt, turning on her heel and heading the opposite direction.  
  
“Please stop calling it that, for the love of God,” Anya sighs, keeping up with her easily.  
  
They shuffle through the school quickly, cutting through the gymnasium, and their feet hit the track in record time.

The grass is slightly slick with dew and blades of grass leave cold streaks of wetness on her legs as she kneels to one knee beside the bench, her hand reaching for her hidden paraphernalia.  
  
Her fingers grasp around, but turn up empty. The only thing she can feel is cigarette buts and dry leaves.  
  
Lexa comes back up, sitting on the backs of her calves. A glint of red paper sitting on the seat of the bench catches her eye and she glances at it, furrowing her brows as she notices tiny letters scrawled across the gum wrapper. She plucks it off the wood and brings it closer.  
  
_‘Checkmate. – Clarke’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we are again. I promise, promise, promise my other fics will be updated but this just came to me. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings in regards to these two kiddos, and I need to get them all out - even if that means I have four stories going at once and my mind is a constant jumble of words and ideas.
> 
> This is just a short little diddy to set the tone. Either way, hopefully you all like the start of this. Comments are always, always so appreciated and remind me that miraculously, someone out there is reading my word vomit and possibly even liking it. Until next time... xx


	2. that's me inside your head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A picture of Lexa's car is added below, because I am really extra and I absolutely love old cars. I've also created a few more Polyvore sets to go along with this because of me being so extra - they're still at b-summers.polyvore.com if you'd like to take a peek, as I make them well in advance of me posting the next chapter and usually include little spoilery bits and bobs. Enjoy, and I'll see you all at the bottom!
> 
> P.S. The song Lexa plays in her car near the end of this chapter is 'Linoleum' by NOFX, but you can always fill that space with the angsty garage rock song of your choice if you prefer.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Clarke Griffin’s morning was beginning to look a little brighter than it began.  
  
She had woken up late – _very_ unlike her – and had only had time to throw herself into a shower and get dressed before heading out the door, her empty stomach groaning at her in protest as she screeched out of the driveway. She had passed her two favorite coffee shops on the way and lamented the existence of both, knowing she had no time to stop in like she usually did, and when she arrived at school the parking lot was completely full of cars and empty of people – a bad sign.  
  
She usually met up with the bright faces of Raven and Octavia, had a little chat, sipped her soy chai and waltzed her way into the chapel well before mass was to begin.  
  
Instead, she finds herself face to face with Lexa Woods – long, dark hair wild down her shoulders, a hazy halo of black rimming her eyes, leaning against the trunk of a tree and puffing on a cigarette. Clarke was in no mood to deal with the frustrating brunette, who apparently did not share the same feelings.  
  
She had to bite her tongue when Lexa mentioned her perfect attendance certificate – it was _once_ , in sophomore year, and she embarrassed as all hell about it but she wasn’t about to tell _her_ that.  
  
She was sat beside Raven in the pew, head bowed, her face still warm with the feeling of a small, petty victory from convincing Aden to close to doors when warm breath washed over the side of her neck, the heady smell of cinnamon and smoke blanketing her senses.  
  
“ _My move now, Princess.”_  
  
She watched the girl saunter between the pews, her posture strong, skirt brushing along bare legs - the walking incarnation of original sin. Clarke’s stomach flipped and took a nose dive, and she was immediately ashamed. She clenched her jaw hard and closed her eyes, purposely focusing all her energy on paying attention to Father Titus speaking at the pulpit. When she opened them again, her eyes easily found the back of Lexa’s head.  
  
Her stupid, _stupid_ head.  
  
_Her move_? Not if Clarke had anything to say about it.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
She had to check – twice – to make sure they weren’t actually lit, because for some reason those damn cigarettes felt as if they were burning a hole in her backpack.  
  
Clarke hadn’t gone to Lexa’s spot with the intention of taking anything. She planned to wait for the girl to come back after mass, hoping that she would want a smoke again before class. She stationed herself on the mossy old bench, back ram-rod straight and arms crossed tight against her chest, tongue poised and ready to roll out a few choice words as soon as the… _nuisance_ of a girl stepped around the bushes.  
  
She delayed, glancing around the grassy space uncertainly, lips in a tight line. Minutes passed and she became antsy, standing and toeing the discarded cigarette buts all around the perimeter of the bench. That’s when she saw it – bright blue plastic, sticking out in between a few crunchy fallen leaves. Clarke bent down and reached, grasping around until her hand hit two distinctly un-leaf-like objects. She stood and glanced down at her hands, letting out an incredulous little laugh at what she held.  
  
A pack of Marlboro’s and a lighter – the blue object she had first spotted.  
  
Without much of a second thought, she threw the items in her backpack and made to leave, but stopped when she saw a shiny red wrapper gleaming in the low morning light filtering slightly through the trees. Her thoughts clicked in to place, puzzle pieces slowly but surely forming a bigger picture. The pen was in her hand before she knew it, and the words practically wrote themselves.  
  
_‘Checkmate. – Clarke’_  
  
Her smile was wide and smug as she scurried away, her chin held a little bit higher than it was before.  
  
Now, however, Clarke had an overwhelming feeling of regret churning her insides. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew – this was a bad idea. Other than stealing being morally wrong – no matter the… paraphernalia she was taking – she had implicated herself with that stupid gum wrapper. If she had just kept her little petty theft to herself, been satisfied with the confused look on Lexa’s face in class when she went without a smoke break after lunch, let the girl think someone else had stolen it and walked away scot free…  
  
But there would be consequences, Clarke was sure of it.  
  
“Clarke, that girl is not someone to mess around with.”  
  
“Yes, Raven, I’m _well_ aware of that.”  
  
She pushes her food around with her fork, the hunger she felt during her second class all but forgotten in the midst of her inner turmoil. She had completely avoided Lexa for the first half of the day, but unless a miracle was bestowed upon her, she would be stuck with her for the entirety of her next class.  
  
Clarke had never dreaded school this much until now.  
  
She throws her plastic fork down with a frustrated sigh, grabbing her apple and picking at the label stuck to it absentmindedly as she glances around the courtyard – the open space was filled with benches and picnic tables, spaced out between manicured flower bushes and bustling with people, but was suspiciously devoid of a certain head of lengthy, dark tresses.  
  
“I mean, I’m _pretty sure_ you could take her in a fight.”  
  
“A _fight_? Raven, who said anything about a fight?”  
  
“ _Ooh_ , who’s fighting?” a voice sang from behind her. Clarke turned to the left to see Octavia, a tray full of food in her hands. She had forgone a skirt today for a red school polo and skinny track pants, a plaid shirt tied casually around her waist – the picture of an athlete, even in her off-season. The girl sat down heavily in the space next to her. “First day of school and there’s already juicy drama. Can I place my bets now?”  
  
Raven rests her elbow on the table and balances her chin on her closed fist, the other hand out and opened palm-up toward Octavia.  
  
“Clarke and Lexa Woods - ante up.”  
  
“ _Lexa_ _Woods_? Well, you know what they say... only the good die young.”  
  
“Shut up. I’m not _fighting_ anyone. I can still fix this. I’ll just give her stuff back and that’ll be it,” Clarke says.  
  
Raven nods slowly, unconvincingly, a tight smile on her face.  
  
“Wait, you _stole_ from her? Damn, what kind of death wish…” Octavia mumbles around a bite of her sandwich, shaking her head.  
  
“It’s not even a big deal!” Clarke insists, throwing her hands up.  
  
Raven and Octavia throw glances at each other and Clarke feels like she might throw up.  
  
“I did not think this through,” she whines, burying her head in her hands. “I _did not_ think this through at all.”  
  
Clarke knows who joins them next without having to look up from her wallowing pit of misery – Octavia lets out an indignant ‘hey!’, there’s a scuffle, and the bench shifts again – one person sitting to her right, the other across from her beside Raven.  
  
“O, why are you still eating like you’re in the middle of championship season?”  
  
“Do I judge _your_ eating habits, Collins? No, I don’t. I _should,_ because your diet consists of mainly steak and protein powder, but I don’t because I’m a decent human being and not a complete asshole.”  
  
“Is there a bowl of _‘bitch flakes’_ somewhere on that tray?”  
  
There’s clanking, a large shift, and Clarke lifts her head just in time to see Bellamy reaching towards Octavia, his arms out and pushing back against her shoulder. The girl is standing, eyes unwaveringly locked on her unwilling target - Finn Collins.  
  
“Let’s cool it down, guys,” Bellamy says, willing Octavia to sit down with his eyes and his voice. It works and she sits with a huff, grabbing the apple in front of Clarke and taking a large bite.  
  
Bellamy settles down again next to Clarke and bumps her shoulder with his own.  
  
“I would just leave her be, Bell,” Raven sighs, breaking off a piece of a cookie and throwing it into her mouth. “She’s contemplating her imminent demise.”  
  
Clarke doesn’t have to look at them to know the two boys are confused.  
  
“I’m going to say this once more and then never again – I ran into Lexa Woods this morning, she ticked me off, I stole her cigarettes.”  
  
There’s only the sounds of Octavia munching on her apple for a moment.  
  
“Well,” Finn starts, his voice uncertain. “Can I have your car when you croak?”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
It's almost like the universe is taunting her, stretching out her paranoia just to make her suffer.  
  
She had avoided stepping foot in the classroom until the last possible minute, pacing just around the corner and weighing her options – she could _skip_ class… but the thought left her before she could start even considering it. She could feign illness, pinch her cheeks to make herself look flushed, grab her stomach, go in and complain of stomach cramps. She could be sent to the nurse’s office with a note… but that most likely would not work either.  
  
So she sucked it up and walked through the door, her chin held high, and was met with a Lexa-less room. Clarke felt relief swell in her chest – maybe Lexa wasn’t in this class, maybe she had been mistaken this morning. I mean, sure, there was only one AP English this semester but there was always the possibility.  
  
Clarke has almost convinced herself Lexa was a no-show when the girl strides through the door. She saunters between the rows of desks, her posture straight and her head held high, and Clarke fights the urge to roll her eyes. She settles down in the seat right behind hers, and she hears her drop her bag heavily to the ground.  
  
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”  
  
Clarke jolts, her back straightening. Lexa’s voice is much closer than she expected. Warm breath hits against the back of her neck, her ear.  
  
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, purposely light and nonchalant.  
  
“I’m sorry, I have _no idea_ what you’re talking about.”  
  
Students bustle around her, oblivious to their exchange, focused on talking as much as they could before the teacher arrived and halted their conversations. Clarke is doodling on a notebook, her pencil gripped tightly between her fingers.  
  
The silence that follows her response is almost deafening in its foreboding. Lexa moves slowly, and Clarke’s face turns hot – she doesn’t want to turn around, but the uncertainty is stifling.  
  
A hand reaches over her shoulder, drops something on her desk and retracts. Clarke glances down, her stomach knotting.  
  
The gum wrapper. Damn. _Damn, damn, damn.  
  
_ She swallows, closes her eyes, tries not to seem as intimidated as she feels, tries to steel her resolve.  
  
She plasters the brightest smile she can manage as she swivels around. Lexa reels back, leaning heavily in her seat.  
  
“Lexa, I apologize for taking your belongings. It was incredibly trivial of me.”  
  
Something sparks in the girl’s eyes, and Clarke feels like she’s stoked a fire instead of extinguished one.  
  
Lexa leans forward, her forearms on the desk, and her eyes narrow - embers flaring behind forest green irises.  
  
“I’m not sure who told you that a good little Christian girl smile and an apology would get you out of a sticky situation, but they were _sadly_ misinformed,” she jibes.  
  
Anger flares in Clarke’s chest, unbidden and unforeseen, and her grin fades. She leans forward as well, her tone hushed.  
  
“I refuse to engage in this with you, Lexa – if you’re looking for a battle, you _won’t_ win.”  
  
Clarke is expecting the girl to sit back, to take her tone as what it is – a warning, an entreaty to diffuse the situation. She feels idiotic for suspecting this girl, her hair wind swept and wild, her eyes shining with odium and barely concealed mirth, would back down from a challenge. The fire rages behind jade.  
  
“There she is, _that’s_ the Clarke Griffin I know so well – _the ice princess_ ,” she whispers. Her lips stretch into a lethal smirk and Clarke’s skin buzzes with abhorrence.  
  
“ _Go to hell_ , Lexa,” she spits, her heart beating wildly beneath her ribs.  
  
The girl lets out a sharp laugh, and the sound twists like a blade in Clarke’s gut. “I’ll catch a ride with you on the way down.”  
  
Clarke’s face flares red and she turns quickly, her chest heaving as if the conversation had been a sprint. Lexa laughs again and the sound is sarcastic.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
The sun makes an unexpected break in the clouds just after school lets out, mercifully drying the lingering wetness on the track as Clarke finishes her last lap, Raven close behind her.  
  
They make their way over to the bleachers, grabbing their water bottles. Clarke takes a long pull, pausing briefly to catch her breath, looking out over the track at the rest of her teammates.  
  
“They didn’t practice _once_ over the summer, did they?” Clarke sighs, placing her bottle back down.  
  
Raven bitterly scoffs, her leg propped up on the bleachers, her arms reached toward her ankle in a stretch.  
  
“I’m going to go ahead and say unquestionably, _not a chance in hell._ ”  
  
Clarke crosses her arms, her brow furrowed. She says a silent prayer for the focus of practice, a very welcome distraction from the unwanted thoughts that clang around in her brain. She watches her team running – stumbling, actually – around the last bend. They relax as they near the pair, and Clarke can hear their relieved exclamations from where she stands, mouth in a tight line.  
  
“I _know_ you don’t think I’m letting you all off that easily.”  
  
The group stops in front of her - most of them bent with their hands on their knees, taking in great gulps of air.  
  
“Come on, Clarke!” Monty whines, holding his hair off his forehead with one hand while the other fans his face. “Don’t be mad. Four laps without a break seems like a fair punishment to me.”  
  
There are murmurs of agreement, and as much as Clarke loves Monty, today is not the right day to test her limits.  
  
“Mont, if _you’re_ ever captain, you can dole out whatever ‘punishment’ you like,” she says slowly, evenly. “But from where I stand, I have a team of out-of-form slackers, whining about a little bit of work when we’re less than a week out from our first game of the school year. I’m not angry, I’m _disappointed_.”  
  
Monty looks to Raven, his eyes wide and pleading.  
  
“Don’t look at me, scrub,” she says, her hands up.  
  
“But you’re co-captain! Can’t you, like… stage a coup or something?”  
  
“I’m standing right here,” Clarke grumbles.  
  
“Even if I didn’t agree with her, that’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. Did you forget you all _voted her in_ as captain?”  
  
Clarke holds a hand up. “Enough talking. This is a cheer squad, not the senate. Give me three more laps.”  
  
Sneakers beat unsteadily away from them, and Clarke has to hold back a snicker at the grumbled complaints of _‘thanks for nothing, Monty’_ that pop out of the group. She’s just about to join them – fair is fair, right? – when she hears the clanking of equipment approaching just to her left.

“Ladies, _very_ good to see you on this track again.”  
  
“I don’t think there was a less scummy way you could have said that,” Raven quips, raising her arms above her head in another stretch.  
  
Finn smirks, running a hand back through his sweat-soaked hair as he walks over to them. His eyes land on Clarke and his grin widens, his casual stride turning into a jog.  
  
“ _Griffin_ ,” he drawls, throwing his helmet between his hands. “Have you been watching us play?”  
  
Clarke considers lying, but doesn’t have the patience to keep up a false façade.  
  
“I haven’t been, actually – a little too busy wrangling my squad. Sorry, Finn.”  
  
He shrugs, his smile faltering for a second. “Leaders have their commitments, I totally get that.”  
  
“You’re a _wide receiver_ , Finn. Hardly the leader.”  
  
“Still a very integral part of the team,” he grins, winking at Clarke. Her eyebrows shoot up at the action.  
  
“I would argue that the full and half backs are a little more _integral_ … hell, even the tight end has a bigger job than you.”  
  
“Wait, seriously? Have you even _seen_ Murphy out there, I do _way_ more than him!”  
  
“I bet you do. Now quit being a pain in _my_ tight end and leave Clarke alone.”  
  
Finn sighs, giving Clarke a withering smile as he turns and makes his way back to the field.  
  
She nearly chokes with the strain of not laughing at Raven’s expression, trained on the boy as he walks away, her face screwed up in a grimace.  
  
“First day of school and he’s already trying to get in your drawers.”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Practice ends with what Clarke hopes is an encouraging speech – less of a ‘pep’ and more of a ‘talk’, really, but hopefully reassuring nonetheless. She puts an Arkadia hoodie over her t-shirt and throws her duffel bag over her shoulder. Raven has already left but Clarke has lingered behind, taking her time. She slowly walks to the parking lot, savouring the chilly wind that brushes her loose locks around and makes goosebumps rise on her exposed legs.  
  
“Did you and your _squad_ get your kumbaya-ya’s out?”  
  
Clarke stumbles, startled by the voice that calls out from a few feet away. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when she looks up to see Lexa, leaning against her car – a convertible, something old and pristine and shiny as hell that Raven has been drooling over since Lexa got it in sophomore year – her arms crossed against her chest. The wind tangles and twirls her locks around her face, a smug expression playing across her features, and Clarke’s chest feels heavy with a mystifying feeling she can’t – or won’t – put her finger on.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about, Lexa?”  
  
Clarke walks past the girl to her car, lamenting silently about the unbelievable irony of her life – she had backed in right beside the other girl this morning, and she hadn’t even noticed.  
  
Lexa turns, resting her hands on the door of her car.  
  
“Clarke, what would _the Lord_ say if he knew you swore so much?”  
  
She laughs, the sound acerbic in her mouth, and throws her duffel bag into the back seat of her car.  
  
“You are _such_ a hypocrite.”  
  
“Oh, I know. At least I can admit it.”  
  
“I don’t need to admit to anything.”  
  
“Oh, that’s _rich_ …”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Lexa saunters around the front of her car, her fingers absentmindedly running along the glossy black surface of her hood as she speaks.  
  
“Do you have faith in in any of this, Clarke? Or are you just pretending for the sake of your friends, your family. Be authentic for once, please.”  
  
She scoffs, rolls her eyes, hoping against hope that she doesn’t appear as shaken as she feels.  
  
“As if I would discuss any of this with you. Your insincerity is honestly concerning, Lexa.”  
  
“Are you even hearing yourself? All I ever _am_ is sincere. I’ve got nothing to lose by being honest. Can you say the same?”  
  
Clarke isn’t sure where this is coming from, why this discussion is even happening. It’s all too much and her head is swimming in it.  
  
She’s so close now, Clarke can smell her – something warm and sweet, peaches and cream and leather seats, and the ever present cinnamon. It churns around her, picked up by the cool breeze, and hums in her mind as Lexa steps closer, closer still and her hand is resting beside Clarke’s head and she’s leaning in, her voice low. _  
  
_ “Are we ever going to talk about it?”  
  
Ice runs down her spine, sharp and cold and she starts, knocked back into her senses. Her hands land firmly on Lexa’s shoulders and she pushes, sharp, purposeful. The girl stumbles back, catches herself against the side of her own car.  
  
“There is absolutely _nothing_ to talk about. Leave it alone.”  
  
The brunette runs a hand through her hair and lets out an acrimonious, hateful laugh – it slices through the air, cutting through the thick tension and opening it wide. Without another word she walks around the front of her car, opens her door, gets inside and starts the engine. It roars to life, along with something fast and aggressive pouring through the speakers, and Lexa doesn’t spare Clarke another glance as she smoothly peels out of the parking lot.  
  
Clarke puts a hand to her chest and takes a deep breath, the sour scent of exhaust filling her lungs.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
_Two Months Prior…_  
_  
  
  
  
  
Her hands tangle in mussed locks, pull at worn leather, grasp at soft skin. Her flesh is on fire, flames licking anywhere she’s touched – down her arms, the sides of her neck, all along her collarbone.  
  
The knob nudges against her lower back as she’s pressed against the wood of the door, but she can’t find it in herself to care when lips that taste of spice and tobacco are on hers, full and so, so soft. Nothing has ever felt this way before, and she’s not sure if anything ever will again.  
  
Their foreheads rest against each other’s when they pause for air, and that small instant is all it takes for reality to smother her. She pushes away, and the dread that vibrates in her bones surrounds her, so violent that she’s certain it could eat her whole.  
  
“Clarke?”  
  
The brunette backs away, her hands held in front of her in surrender or in helpless desperation.  
  
Clarke puts a hand to her forehead, feeling the sweat beading against her hairline._

_“This is… I can’t. This isn’t me.”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“I’m not – I don’t…”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“No, you don’t.”  
  
“You’re shaking.”  
  
“I need to leave.”  
  
“I’ll drive you home.”  
  
“Don’t touch me.”  
  
Bellamy catches up to her as she pushes through the crowd, and he puts an arm around her, his face so close to hers she can count the freckles on his nose. She tries to focus on him, tries to look at his lips and want them as bad as she wanted _ hers _. He untangles her arms from around his neck, tells her as nicely as he can that she’s drunk and she doesn’t know what she’s doing.  
  
_ (She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.) _  
  
It’s a mantra, and she holds onto it the entire drive back to her place. Bellamy keeps looking at her, checking on her, asking if she’s okay. He stops at a fast food place, buys her something he says will soak up the alcohol in her stomach, sober her up enough to face her parents.  
  
They’re asleep when she gets home, anyway. Her hand brushes against the wall as she walks to her bedroom - an attempt to ground herself or balance herself, she’s not sure which is more true. Her father’s snoring is so loud it comes from under her parent’s bedroom door and reverberates down the hallway.  
  
It’s only when she’s changed into her pajamas, curled under her covers that she lets herself remember the agony painted plainly across the girl’s face before she turned and left her alone in the dim light of an empty bedroom._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just need to take a moment here and say thank you for all the kind words I received on the first chapter. I was not expecting that kind of response - I'm not fibbing when I say it truly, truly made my week and I was so overjoyed to come home every day and see another lovely comment.
> 
> Thoughts? Feelings? Suggestions of more describing words for 'cinnamon'?
> 
> Until next time. xx


	3. you can take your time, take my time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reference to Lexa and candles somewhere in here because I think I'm really funny sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, jeez, what a wait... Life, you guys. Many apologies. But here's just over 4,000 words to hopefully make up for it. I'm not 100% happy with it but that's okay - I think I'm just in too much of a rush to get to the next chapter. :)
> 
> [Here](http://www.polyvore.com/clarke_lexa_ii_losing_my/set?id=204662499) is my accompanying Polyvore set, if you'd like to take a peek at our kiddos. #makemestopbeingsofuckingextra2k16 See you at the bottom!

It rains nearly every day during the week, and it’s so prototypical of the Pacific Northwest that Lexa doesn’t even mind – the chill of the air, the smell of damp concrete and wet earth is so ingrained in her that when the grey, billowing clouds roll through they bring her a much needed sense of comfort.  
  
She shuts off her stereo as she drives to listen to the heavy ‘ping’ sounds of the drops on the roof of her car. Unfortunately, it also allows her to hear the unmistakable, spine-straightening sound of a _‘pop’_ from her engine, followed quickly by smoke curling around the sides of her hood.  
  
Lexa swears under her breath, going against better judgement and pressing harder on the gas in an effort to get to school in record time. She says a silent thank you to herself for making the decision to leave the house earlier than she normally does as she pulls rapidly around to the back of the building, the two garage doors of the shop room mercifully open. She pulls in, her tires squealing and stops, quickly shutting her engine off.  
  
Exiting the car, there’s some kind of guitar-heavy rock crackling from a radio sitting on top of a bright red 12-drawer cabinet off to the side and she looks around, checking for any sign of the greying shop teacher - perpetually in his blue grease-stained jumpsuit.  
  
“Hey, Mr. Russell? You here?”  
  
Her boots echo against the concrete floors as she walks around to the front of her car, moving to open the hood.  
  
“Shit!”  
  
Lexa pulls her hand back and sticks the side of her index finger in her mouth – the hood was fucking _scalding_ , she should have known.  
  
The radio is turned off, and Lexa is definitely not expecting the voice she hears, the tone slightly taunting.  
  
“ _Please_ don’t tell me when I finally get my hands on this car, you’ve already run it into the ground.”  
  
Lexa’s finger is still in her mouth when she turns, her eyes narrowed - Raven Reyes, the arms of her jumpsuit tied around her waist and leaving her top half in only a grey tank top, is smirking and wiping something off her hands with a red cloth.  
  
“Oh, there is _no fucking way_ I’m letting you anywhere near her. Where’s Mr. Russell?”  
  
Raven – infuriatingly – ignores her, walking toward her car with a low whistle. She runs the cloth along the side as she comes around, a reverent expression on her face.  
  
“’65 Mustang. _Damn_. How many miles?”  
  
Lexa sighs, crosses her arms.  
  
“Barely 30,000 clicks.”  
  
Raven gapes. “How’d you swing that? It’s pristine, too – well, except for whatever the hell _you’ve_ managed to do to it.”  
  
“My father has a penchant for old cars,” she replies, not elaborating any further. “ _Where’s Mr. Russell?_ I’d really like to get her looked at before class.”  
  
“Coffee break, which inevitably turns into a smoke break, which inevitably turns into a breakfast break. He won’t be back for a while, and I’d recommend getting this looked at sooner rather than later. _So…_ ”  
  
Lexa closes her eyes, breathes deeply. When she looks at Raven again, her furrowed brows are even deeper than they had been.  
  
“Fix her.”  
  
Raven pumps her fist and turns to the car, her eyes wide and bright. She has the forethought to lift the hood using the cloth – Lexa sniffs, her finger still stinging – and wafts the smoke away from her face when it billows out and around her. Lexa steps forward, her arms still tight against her chest, and sighs as she comes to stand beside the other girl. Now that they’re in a quiet space and she can focus on just the sounds of her car, she can hear a quiet, wet hissing sound she had somehow missed before.  
  
“It’s the radiator hose.”  
  
Raven leans forward with both hands, her eyes darting back and forth over the engine, and scoffs lightly.  
  
“Let the mechanic do her job, please.”  
  
“You’re not _really_ a mechanic, Reyes.”  
  
“I might as well be, _Woods_. Russell pawns most of his work off on me, anyway.”  
  
Lexa checks the time – about half an hour until class starts. She’s not too concerned with being perfectly on time – especially because her first class for today is the universally dreaded and unfortunately required ‘Religion’ course – but she’s itching to grab a smoke before class. She misses Darlene, weather be damned.  
  
Raven reaches out and, without looking, grabs a wrench from one of the open drawers in the cabinet. She stretches down, moving a few wires and tapping against something. She stops, sighs, and hangs her head before she speaks.  
  
“It’s the radiator hose.”  
  
Lexa doesn’t even _try_ to stop the intensely smug smile that stretches across her face, and her eyebrow confidently arches – a trait she’s picked up from Anya - when Raven turns to glare at her over her shoulder.  
  
“How the hell did you know, without barely even looking at it?”  
  
“You don’t own an old car without knowing how to fix it up a bit. My father and I used to…” she hesitates. Really, Raven doesn’t need to know any detailed information and she’s not even willing to divulge it, so she settles for, “We like to work on cars together, sometimes.”  
  
Raven nods slowly, eyeing her up and down – Lexa’s tapping foot, hip popped to the side slightly, crossed arms, unwillingness to make eye contact. A smirk pulls up the corner of the girl’s mouth, and it makes Lexa’s eyes narrow.  
  
“I can do a quick fix, ten minutes tops, but it’s only temporary. If you want to come back later this week, I can do a proper job of it.”  
  
“You’re going to shorten the hose, right?”  
  
Raven turns, leans back against the front of the car, and crosses her arms to match Lexa’s stance. Her eyes are calculating, scanning over Lexa like she’s an equation or an anomaly she can’t quite figure out.  
  
“Yes, I’m going to shorten the hose.”  
  
“And later this week, you want to replace it entirely?”  
  
“That’s correct.”  
  
“What do I owe you for it?”  
  
“Nothing,” Raven shrugs, turning back to the cabinet and pulling out a flat head screw driver and a pair of cutters.  
  
Lexa watches her for a minute, her lips pursed.  
  
“That’s not how I work, Reyes. _What do I owe you_?”  
  
“ _And as for you, brothers and sisters, never tire of doing what is good_.”  
  
“… Did you just quote the bible to me?”  
  
“Second Thessalonians 3:13, baby.”  
  
It throws Lexa off for a minute, the thought that this girl actually takes in what’s been drilled into them. She didn’t think that Raven Reyes would buy into it, especially not the same Raven Reyes that won their 9 th grade science fair with a homemade prosthetic arm while Lexa’s project was about whether white or coloured candles burn faster, the same girl that was in her 10th grade Biology class and asked their teacher a bold-faced question about evolution that students still remember a year later… quoting the bible to her, straight from memory.  
  
“Why do you look like I just vomited on your fuel injector?”  
  
“I just… didn’t fucking expect that coming from _you_ , to be honest.”  
  
Raven laughs – a small, sad little laugh that sounds almost sarcastic.  
  
“My parents are… my dad is Irish, my mom is Mexican. With a wombo-combo of that proportion, I was drowning in bible verses from birth. If I had a choice…”  
  
“I get it. Nature versus nurture, right?”  
  
The other girl turns, looks like she’s processing Lexa again.  
  
“Right.”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“Alright, 7:00 this Wednesday.”  
  
“Remind me again why we can’t do this _after_ school? I’d rather not have to wake up at an ungodly hour if I can help it.”  
  
Raven snorts, patting the hood of Lexa’s car.  
  
“This beautiful baby needs some special love and attention. She deserves the extra time, and I’ve got cheer practice after school.”  
  
“Jesus, can you maybe _not_ look like you want to finger-bang my car’s exhaust pipe?”  
  
The other girl throws her head back and lets out a deep guffaw, and Lexa really has to stop herself from laughing right along with her for many reasons – but mainly because she and Raven Reyes have never been friendly toward each other, and it’s honestly… pretty fucking _weird_.  
  
Whatever moment they had is immediately shattered when a clear voice rings out, echoing against concrete floors and making Lexa’s stomach drop straight down to the God damn toes of her beat up Doc’s.  
  
“Oh, _Raven_ , my Raven! I come bearing gifts!”  
  
Clarke Griffin rounds the corner, her white polo fastened to the very top button, tights and knee-highs without a single run or loose thread. Her shiny black Hunter boots squeal on the floor with every step as she prances through, army green parka just brushing the bottom hem of her perfectly pressed skirt. Lexa fights the urge to roll her eyes and, ultimately, loses – even without the rain, it’s windy, sharp and nippy, and the girl still _insists_ on wearing a damn skirt.  
  
Lexa’s blood feels like it’s running fast through her veins, a combination of antagonism and something else that she doesn’t want to fucking touch with a ten-foot pole.  
  
The blonde stops short when she spots the two girls standing across from each other, already looking in her direction. She has a disposable cardboard tray in her hands, three drinks nestled in it.  
  
“ _Lexa_?” she says. Clarke looks Lexa up and down, shifts her feet, clears her throat. “What are _you_ doing here?”  
  
There’s an overwhelming urge to just ignore her, thank Raven and hop in her car – peace the _fuck_ out of there before she does something idiotic, lets her anger override her sense of self preservation and make a complete ass out of herself.  
  
But her stupid, stubborn pride plants her feet firmly on the ground, and it squares her shoulders and crosses her arms tighter against her chest.  
  
“One might assume that if one is in a mechanic’s garage, with a car, they’re there to _see a mechanic_.”

“One might also assume that once you’ve seen the mechanic, one might _leave the garage_. Not hang back and… trifle around.”  
  
Lexa’s answering laugh is almost completely mirthless. She sees Raven from the corner of her eye, watching the exchange with something akin to uneasiness playing across her features.  
  
“Christ, what decade are you from? _‘Trifle around’_?”  
  
Clarke’s hands tighten around the drink tray, bending the flimsy cardboard slightly.  
  
“Well, if you’re done, you can leave. Stop bothering Raven, _she’s not_ _interested_.”  
  
Lexa hears the underlying meaning to the words, and she’s a little nervous that the implication was clear to not only the two of them – though, judging by the other girl’s confused expression, she’s almost certain Raven is oblivious to Clarke’s true intent. Still, it makes her insides turn and yank violently with the need to guard herself.  
  
“A little domineering, aren’t we? It seems like if anyone out of the two of us is _interested_ …”  
  
“Lexa’s car broke down on the way to school,” Raven interrupts. “The most logical solution would be to head down here. Be reasonable, Clarke.”  
  
“Whose side are you _on_ , Raven?” Clarke hisses, narrowed eyes now focusing on her friend.  
  
“ _Side_? God, I didn’t know there were sides here. I think maybe you need to take a step out – “  
  
“ _I_ don’t need to go anywhere. _She_ needs to leave and stop disturbing you.”  
  
As much as Lexa wants to continue, win this little back-and-forth they have going on, the entire situation is getting her too worked up too quickly and much too early in the morning, and _she needs a fucking cigarette_. She runs her tongue over her teeth, uncrossing her arms and sauntering up to Clarke - who is so engaged in her own staring contest with Raven that she doesn’t notice Lexa is standing right in front of her. She reaches out, grabs a cup from the cup holder gripped between Clarke’s hands, and takes a large step backward.  
  
“ _What the hell_? That isn’t yours.”  
  
“Sharing is caring, Princess.”  
  
“ _Stealing_ is a sin, you wretched witch.”  
  
Lexa’s mouth forms into a little ‘O’, and she puts her free hand to her chest, walking back as Clarke starts to walk forward.  
  
“Harsh words from the Virgin Mary. I don’t know about you, Raven, but I am absolutely scandalized.” Her tone is dry, and Raven’s answer is nothing but a deep sigh.  
  
She opens her car door and sits inside in one fluid motion, starting her car with a roar that bounces almost painfully loud off the thick walls of the garage. Through the rain-speckled glass of her windshield, she sees Clarke flinch at the sound and a sour grin pulls at the corners of her lips.  
  
Depositing the drink in her cup holder, she rolls down a window, resting her elbow against it as she backs out.  
  
“Thanks again, Reyes,” she calls. And then, with a small, satisfied little smirk, “See you next week.”  
  
Lexa peels out, her eyes focused on her side mirror where she can see Clarke turn to Raven, anger straightening her spine and making her face almost as crimson as the cabinets.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“It’s times like these I really appreciate a little leniency in the dress code. I’ll take pants over a skirt any day, especially a day where it feels like my nipples might freeze off.”  
  
“I was with you until the nipples, An.”

Lexa takes a long pull from her cigarette, closing her eyes and holding the fumes in for a moment. The smoke curls around her face, lifting up and carrying away on a slight breeze. There hadn’t been enough time before class to do this and, unfortunately, her sister received the brunt of her ire. The heavy downpour had ceased just after their first class and was replaced by a light mist that was clinging to Lexa’s curls and gathering every so often into small droplets.  
  
Anya deemed the weather appropriate enough to go out for lunch, and after grabbing a couple of sandwiches from the deli down the road, they settled in the parking lot to eat. Lexa was leaning against the driver’s side of the car, the windows rolled down so she could hear Anya, who was currently reclined back in the passenger’s seat.  
  
“Aren’t you cold out there?”  
  
Lexa shrugs, one arm crossed over her chest as she brings the cigarette up to her lips and inhales again. She looks down at herself – red school polo tucked into black jeans tucked into comfortably worn in black boots.  
  
“Not really. I don’t mind the cold.”  
  
“Man, it’s true what mom says – we really are like yin and yang.”  
  
“Maybe more Beavis and Butthead.”  
  
“Thelma and Louise?”  
  
“Don’t they kiss in that movie?”  
  
“ _God,_ you’re right. That’s sick, forget I said that. Bonnie and Clyde?”  
  
“Anya, they _definitely_ kiss.”  
  
Anya pulls the lever beside her seat, launching her upward into a sitting position. She grabs something from the cup holder, takes a sip…  
  
And immediately opens the door to spit it out.  
  
“Oh, Jesus. What the fuck is this, Lexa? It tastes like the bathroom floor of a Starbucks.”  
  
Lexa taps the ashes off the end of her smoke. “It’s not mine.”  
  
Anya gets out and walks around the car, mirroring Lexa’s position. She’s scraping her tongue with her shirt, face pinched into a grimace.  
  
“Then whose _is_ it?”  
  
“Clarke Griffin.”  
  
She refuses to look at her sister, because what she can see from her peripheral vision is not good – Anya’s eyes are narrowed, her foot tapping. Lexa takes another long drag.  
  
“What was _Clarke Griffin_ doing in your car?”  
  
“She wasn’t.”  
  
Anya shakes her head, her face a muddle of confusion. “So, she gave it to you?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Her sister nods, understanding. “You took it.”  
  
“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’.  
  
Anya shrugs, crosses her legs at the ankles. “I’m not going to ask why, because I’m sure you had a good reason… but that shit tasted like garbage.”  
  
Lexa lets out a small laugh, throws the burning end of her smoke to the ground and stomps it out. There’s a long moment of silence, where Anya looks at her and she looks across the parking lot and there are no sounds other than the passing of cars.  
  
“I won’t ask, but you can tell me if you want to.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
She doesn’t offer anything up, and Anya doesn’t push it. It’s how they’ve always worked. As kids, they didn’t squabble or bicker, didn’t push or pull hair or scream or yell. Lexa tilts her head to the side, looking at her sister, the parallels and variances. Anya moves closer and swings her arm around Lexa’s shoulders, and she lets herself be small for a moment.  
  
It’s fleeting, however – Lexa pushes off the side of her car and gets inside, and Anya makes her way back to the passenger’s seat. The travel cup in her cup holder seems like it’s invading her space all of a sudden, and she picks it up with every intention of dumping it out of her open window when curiosity kills the cat.  
  
She brings it to her scrunched up nose, anticipating something akin to the smell of burning rubber with the way Anya described it. The actuality is much less offensive than she expects. She squints at the messy writing scrawled on the side of the cup and snorts.  
  
“’ _Soy chai’_? How predictably characteristic of her.”  
  
She reaches out, dumps the liquid onto the wet pavement of the parking lot and tosses the empty cup to the side before pulling out onto the main road. They reach the school just as the bell rings, signalling the end of lunch. Anya steps out, grabs her backpack and swings it over her shoulder. Lexa stays in the car, making no moves to get out, playing with the radio. Anya’s sigh is heavy enough she can hear it over the garbled static of the tuner.  
  
She leans down, poking her head through the driver’s side window and levels Lexa with a loaded stare.  
  
“I’m not seeing you in school for the rest of the day, am I?”  
  
Lexa sniffs, her attention much too focused on the radio’s dials.  
  
“Just… be back before class ends, alright?”  
  
“I make no such promises.”  
  
Anya leans in, presses a loud smack to the top of Lexa’s head and backs away, tapping the hood before turning and treading toward the school doors.   
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, the school is adorned in red, silver and black, and a painted sign hangs over the front entrance of the school.  
  
_‘GO WARRIORS GO! CRUSH THE ICE NATION!’  
  
_ Lexa runs a hand through her hair and tries to ignore the students that bustle around her, their chatter so fast and loud and it almost becomes like an insufferable drone. The last place Lexa wanted to be tonight was at that game, for so many reasons she could barely even count, so the jovial atmosphere is all but wasted on her.  
  
Of course, because it seems like she is now stuck in an ass-backwards parallel world, the universe decides at that precise moment to throw her an insurmountable fucking curve-ball in the form of Anya Woods.  
  
“We’re going to the game tonight.”  
  
Lexa jumps as she sound of Anya’s hand smacking against the locker beside hers. She rifles around in her bag, switching textbooks and notebooks for the ones in her own locker.  
  
“Funny, An.”  
  
“Don’t make any plans, we have to be there at six to buy tickets and get good seats.”  
  
Her eyes widen and her hands stop moving, and Lexa turns slowly, carefully toward her sister as if she were an unstable animal.  
  
“Are you in trouble?”  
  
“What? Lex, what the fuck –”  
  
“Is someone threatening you? Do you owe anybody money, are you being blackmailed?”  
  
“No? Lexa – ”  
  
“Then there is absolutely no reason for us to go.”  
  
“Where the fuck is your team spirit, Lexa?”  
  
“The same place as your rational thought, apparently.”  
  
Anya reaches out, grabbing her by the shoulder and turning her.  
  
“Please? You can have an ‘I owe you’ card, no conditions apply, cash it in whenever you want. Lex, _please_?”  
  
She looks at Anya, _really_ looks at her, squints and studies her face. Her sister’s face breaks out into a grin, and Lexa tongue is sharp and ready to deliver a firm ‘no’.  
  
Just behind her shoulder, Lexa spots her and the word gets caught on her tongue. Clarke rounds the corner, free arm looped into Raven’s while the other grips a red and silver pom-pom. They’re dressed in their uniforms, the rest of their… _squad_ behind them, and the hallway parts like they're Moses parting the red fucking sea.  
  
Raven catches her eye, and before either of them are prepared for it, she’s face-to-face with the pair.  
  
“What's up, Woods?”  
  
Her eyes lock on the blonde, run up and down, study carefully – the red and black cropped cheer shirt with ‘Warriors’ emblazoned across the front, short skirt and most surprisingly, bare legs. By the time she gets back to Clarke’s face, the blonde has pink creeping up her cheeks and her eyes are a frosty blue, piercing and reticent.  
  
She remains taciturn, her chin held high, and the corner of Lexa’s mouth twitches upward.  
  
“Raven… Clarke.”  
  
The girl turns her eyes away, shaking her head slightly, glancing anywhere but at Lexa.  
  
“Are you two coming to the game tonight?” Raven continues, pulling slightly on Clarke’s arm as if she were a distracted child. Clarke does not turn, but her jaw works slightly, tensing. Lexa watches the muscles in her hand clench and unclench into a small fist, and her eyebrow arches.  
  
The question hangs in the air for a moment. Raven looks to Anya; Anya to Lexa; Lexa to Clarke - who looks straight to the tiled floor beneath them.  
  
Defiance rages in Lexa’s veins, and the completely apparent derision the blonde holds at the very idea of her being in attendance pulls the words from her lips before she has much wont to stop them. Clarke turns, her lips pressed into a firm line, and they’re locked together in a disdainful staring contest for the briefest of moments.  
  
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  
  
Satisfaction. Bitter, unbridled satisfaction hops around in Lexa’s chest as Clarke’s face drops and her lips part into an expression that projects complete incredulity and contempt.  
  
The small smile that danced on the corners of her lips breaks into a full-on smirk.  
  
“Great! We’ll see you there?”  
  
Clarke tugs at Raven’s arm, and the girl allows herself to be pulled away.  
  
“Oh, _definitely_ ,” Lexa calls out, watching Clarke’s firm marching until she disappears around the corner.  
  
“ _Okay_ ,” Anya starts, hesitant. “This time, I think I have to ask… what _was_ that, Lexa?”  
  
The now all too familiar buzzing that accompanies a run-in with the girl rings in her body, down her limbs, heats the back of her neck. It makes her feel electric, and she reasons that the cause of her heart pounding dynamically inside her chest is from the satisfaction of her undeniably petty victory. It _must_ be - it complicates things and clouds her mind too much to think about it being anything other than that.  
  
Clarke Griffin is, without a doubt, one hell of an uphill battle and Lexa isn’t completely sure if she’s prepared to make the journey.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there. This update was supposed to happen, like, a week ago but work and life and just many, many things... writer's block, really. There's a lot of things I want to happen and I can't work out where exactly I want to put them and when because I'm very disorganized and the thought of making an outline makes me itchy. Taking a moment here to say, your reviews... how fucking lovely of you guys, pardon my language. Such a gigantic thank you and a consensual hug, if you'd like one, because they were so nice and hearing your thoughts and opinions on my brain words mean a lot more than I can express in this little box.
> 
> Also, a couple of quick points of housekeeping: Anya and Lexa are sisters, yes, but half-siblings. They have the same mother and different fathers. Anya and Bellamy are both seniors, while the rest of them are juniors.
> 
> P.S. [This](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/47/07/d7/4707d7945304b45faa24ab3eff3e1f3d.jpg) is Lexa's science fair project. I stumbled upon it while looking for ideas for Raven's project, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity. My little sweet candle babe Lexa... <3
> 
> P.P.S. I spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating buying a blazer the other day because I can't get this damn story out of my mind.


	4. too tired to fight your rhyme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where I try to discreetly describe a football game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No excuses this time, just one simple truth: I got stuck, you guys. Like, hella stuck. The kind of stuck where you open a blank document and stare at it and your brain won't connect to your hands and won't connect to the keyboard to make words that sound like anything good. It's probably apt that I strongly suggest you listen to 'Stuck On You', either the original by Failure or the cover by Paramore (they're both equally as good) because if the title of this wasn't 'losing my religion', it would be 'Stuck On You'. It's pretty much the auditory equivalent to this story.
> 
>  
> 
> [Polyvore set.](http://www.polyvore.com/clarke_lexa_losing_my_religion/set?id=203748105)

Screw Raven Reyes.  
  
Screw Raven Reyes and her stupid face.  
  
“ _Oh Lexa,_ are you coming to the game tonight? Lexa, will I see you there? Lexa, Lexa, _Lexa_.”  
  
Clarke watches Raven’s reflection roll her eyes – her _stupid_ eyes – and screw her mascara wand back into the bottle. She gives a _stupid_ smirk, lifts a _stupid_ eyebrow and meets Clarke’s eyes in the mirror.  
  
“I distinctly remember saying ‘will _we_ see you there’, thank you very much,” she says in reply, digging through her makeup bag and producing a cherry red lip gloss.  
  
“Even more stupid.”  
  
“Even _stupider_ ,” Raven says, grin wide and toothy, tapping the tip of the blonde’s nose with her tube of gloss.  
  
Clarke gapes at Raven, crossing her arms and looking at her own reflection. The image is reminiscent of a petulant child, all flushed cheeks and deeply furrowed brows and Clarke is too… _pissed off_ , for lack of a better term, to even care.  
  
“I’m not going to dignify that response with a comeback,” Clarke quips, shaking her head. She runs her fingers through shiny blonde locks, grabbing two pieces from either side of her head and pinning them back. “You’re deflecting.”  
  
“I have nothing to deflect. School spirit was my only motivator, Clarkey – school spirit and my incessant need to disturb some shit.”  
  
Clarke narrows her eyes, willing Raven to somehow poke her eye with her lip gloss wand. At least then they’d have an excuse not to show up. ‘ _Sorry we couldn’t make it, you guys – Raven had an unfortunate accident with a tube of ‘Candy Apple Red’ and I was the only one around to take her to a doctor. We’ll get ‘em next time, squad!’_  
  
“If you have one virtue, Ray, it’s your honesty.”  
  
“The only one I’ve got left,” the brunette winks, mashing her lips together and making a pouty face at herself in the mirror, complete with a wink. This time, Clarke can’t keep a smirk from pulling at her lips. “Ah hah! I see that smile.  _Damn it_ , I’m irresistible – it’s a curse.”  
  
Raven turns and walks to her bed as Clarke fastens a bright red ribbon in her hair around the pins that hold back her locks, tying it into a bow. In the reflection of the large vanity mirror, Raven pulls her t-shirt and jeans off, and Clarke doesn’t think she’s ever averted her eyes so quickly – they almost fly out of the sockets with the speed, and an uncomfortable warmth crawls up her spine to the back of her neck. She clears her throat, finished tying the bow and pretends to straighten her own shirt, eyes firmly planted on the bottom hem of her henley.  
  
“I’m… just going to go change quickly,” she says, her voice almost too clear and even. Clarke turns, head down all the while, and grasps her folded uniform sitting on the bed.  
  
“Why? Just change in here.”  
  
Clarke can hear the rustling of fabric as Raven puts on her own uniform and her mind is a mess. Of all the times they've changed in front of each other – God, they even _bathed_ together when they were kids – she’s never felt this… _awkward._ And more than the heavy feeling of being uncomfortable itself, the fact that she feels this way at all is even more concerning.  
  
Clarke doesn’t need to think too hard about the sudden change. Ultimately, it all boils down to one thing – one _person_. _She_ had done this to Clarke, made her into an unsure mess of a girl, made her feel so strangely in the presence of possibly the one person she never has been uncomfortable in front of. Contempt burns anew.  
  
“Clarke?”  
  
Blue eyes meet concerned brown.  
  
“You okay, mija?”  
  
Clarke fixes a smile and quickly peels her shirt off.  
  
“All is well in Griffinland.”  
  
Raven smiles, pulling her hair back into a ponytail, Clarke’s inner uproar apparently successfully hidden.  
  
“Damn, we look good,” the brunette says, struggling to tie her own red ribbon.  
  
She finishes zipping up the back of her skirt and stands behind Raven, batting her hands away with a ‘tsk’ and fixing a perfect bow around her ponytail. They stand side-by-side, wide smiles matching the polaroid of four girls tucked into the edge of the mirror – Raven, missing her two front teeth, hair frizzy; Clarke, two wavy braided pigtails; Octavia, flexing with a wide, toothy grin. And the last girl…  
  
Clarke glances away from the photo, lets the memory sink into her skin and banish any lingering effects of her momentary chaos.  
  
“ _Hell yeah_ , we do.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
The parking lot is packed almost to capacity and is absolutely bustling with people – students, parents, teachers, neighbours and friends. It seems as if almost everyone in the city is in attendance for the first game of the school year, and the buzz of the crowd reminds Clarke why she loves all of this so much. She’s waving and shouting greetings every few seconds, so busy with friends and familiar faces that she doesn’t have time to scan the parking lot for a shiny black Mustang.  
  
Okay, _that’s_ a lie. A huge, _gigantic_ lie.  
  
Clarke does look, _more than once_ – but only to assuage the rolling unease in her gut. Every time she looks and doesn’t see that car, it’s a good thing. Definitely, one-hundred percent good. It means she won’t show up, which would not be surprising _in the least_.  
  
Clarke doesn’t have a spare moment to wonder why the thought of Lexa _not_ showing up only makes the lead weight in her stomach grow even heavier, because she finally assembles her team and leads them into the school gymnasium.  
  
They all don their red and black ‘Warriors’ zip-ups, and an almost painfully bright smile stretches across her face when they form into a circle, her and Raven in the middle. They grin back at her, at each other, most on the tips of their sneakers with anticipation.  
  
“First game of junior year, numbskulls,” Raven starts, her arms crossed authoritatively. “This can make or break us for the rest of the season. We fuck up one spirit tuck, _jerkie one fucking herkie_ and the ‘Curse of 2005’ haunts us for the rest of the year.”  
  
“Wait, curse of the… _what_?” one of the newer girls asks – a sophomore named Charlotte, who’d joined the team last year - and the group goes silent, staring at her with wide eyes.  
  
“Their flyer wanted to attempt a ‘dragon swing’ and switched to a ‘liberty.’ None were prepared.”  
  
Charlotte’s face is a mask of confusion as the majority of the others wince. Raven sighs, hanging her head.  
  
“Okay, but… that’s not so bad, not if she knew what she was –“  
  
“The flyer was a freshman.”  
  
The girl’s face drops in the blink of an eye, blanching.  
  
“No one died,” Clarke rushes out, throwing Raven a meaningful side-eye. _Damn it, they had discussed these stupid fear tactics_ … but not even Clarke can deny how comical it is to see those dismayed expressions. “But it lived on in infamy. Any team that made a mistake their first game inevitably failed from then on.”  
  
The gym is silent for a second, just the rushing sound of the throng and the blaring of music over the speakers outside reverberating against the walls.  
  
Raven claps her hands together, loudly. “Now that’s over with, let’s make sure we show those Ice Nation whor –“  
  
“ _Okay,_ Raven! Thank you very much for the words of encouragement,” Clarke interrupts, discreetly pinching Raven’s side. The other girl lets out an indignant yelp. “You’ve all worked your behinds off these past couple of weeks. I wanted to take a minute to thank you for your dedication and loyalty to this squad.”  
  
Clarke glances around again, taking in each and every smiling face, and comes back around to rest her eyes on Raven.  
  
“Let’s take some names and kick some Ice Nation _ass.”_  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“ _It’s the start of the second quarter, and the Arkadia Warriors are just three points ahead of the Azgeda Timberwolves…_ ”

 

The sun has gone down and a chill settles in the air, biting at Clarke’s exposed legs. She had the forethought to wear a long-sleeved layer under her cropped cheer shirt, and she forces herself not to let out a laugh at the sight of Raven, pom-poms clenched in her fists, arms tight against her body.  
  
Clarke ruffles her own pom-poms together, lifting one arm in the air as the teams take the field once more.  
  
“ _Come on, Warriors_!” she shouts, her team echoing her actions. She lets out one last ‘whoop’ before shifting slightly to sidle up next to Raven. “I’m breaking formation right now, so you _know_ it’s important.”  
  
“ _W-what do you want_ , Griff?” she stutters, words stumbling out of her mouth around chattering teeth.  
  
“Just to say ‘I told you so.’”  
  
Raven turns, her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Frostbite is a small p-price to pay for looking _th-this_ _good_.”  
  
“I don’t think I can part with those gams of yours, unfortunately. Go put on your jacket.”  
  
“Not a _ch-chance_. I’m still the b-beauty of this operation.”  
  
“I’m not saying this as your friend, I’m saying it as your captain. _Go put a jacket on, Reyes._ ”  
  
She grumbles through clenched teeth, putting her pom-poms down on the track and heading over to her duffel bag. Clarke is watching her hurriedly put her zip-up on when she spots her. _Jesus_ , how could she not?  
  
Lexa sticks out like the sorest thumb, all wild locks and indifference. She’s not sitting in the bleachers – she’s beside them, her shoulder leaning against a metal supporting rod, hand up to her mouth with what Clarke knows before seeing the smoke billowing from between her lips is a Marlboro. She’s black jeans and loose flannel and leather jacket and worn-in boots, and it would be a laughable cliché if it weren’t all so infuriatingly, undeniably unintended of her.  
  
‘ _All I ever am is sincere. I’ve got nothing to lose by being honest_.’  
  
She expects Lexa to spot her, realizing Clarke’s noticed her attendance and turning away with a smirk and a petulant raise of her brows. It takes a moment to apprehend Lexa’s been watching her the entire time, before she even noticed her standing there.  
  
The thought shifts dangerously in Clarke’s stomach and she turns away – but not before catching the bold, telling crooked grin that sharpens Lexa’s features. She draws in an indignant breath, her posture straight, fixing her feet to the ground. The poster teen for prim and proper, she keeps her eyes on the field.  
  
Finn jogs over to the sideline, taking his helmet off as he approaches the bench and _shit, has a whole play gone by_? Sweat soaks the hair all around his forehead and he pats it away with a small towel, flashing Clarke a million-watt smile. She returns it, waving at him with a red and silver pom in her hand, and for a fleeting second it all feels so normal. The word settles bitterly on her tongue.  
  
“Enjoying the view?”  
  
Clarke jumps, meeting Monty’s bright eyes briefly before looking back to the field. Finn is turned to the side, one of the coaches explaining something in great detail, hands flying wildly – but Clarke can still see his lingering grin.  
  
She looks over her shoulder, a brief little glance that could be written off as any number of things, only to find an empty space where Lexa was standing.  
  
Clarke turns, her beam not quite as easy to come by as before.  
  
“Yeah, totally.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“ _And with an incredible pass by number 23, Bellamy Blake to number 18, Finn Collins we’re nearly at the halfway mark…_ ”  
  
  
  
She’s barely swallowed the water in her mouth before Raven’s hand is locked around her wrist, pulling her past the rest of the team and up toward the bleachers. Clarke tries with no avail to lock her knees and dig her heels into the ground.  
  
“What are you _doing_? We’ve got barely ten minutes to get ready for halftime – “  
  
“ _God_ , are you ever quick on the uptake, Reyes.”  
  
They round the corner behind the bleachers, almost colliding straight into Octavia as they do.  
  
“ _O_? What is – what the _hell_ is going on?” Clarke sputters.  
  
“Okay, _please_ don’t freak out.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
Raven sighs. “People _always_ freak out when someone says ‘don’t freak out’, Octavia. _Always_. ‘Don’t freak out’ really means ‘ _freak out a little bit less_.’”  
  
Octavia stares at them, her face an unnatural mask of cool, calm, and collected. She nods, and it strikes Clarke as exceptionally odd because nodding isn’t really the right response to Raven’s statement, and why does she smell so strongly of perfume? Who is she trying to impress, someone with a grossly desensitized sense of smell? Why does she -  
  
“Oh _no_ ,” Clarke whispers, creeping closer to Octavia. Her eyes are wide, rimmed red and glassy. “Oh, this is... are you - are you _high_ , Octavia?”  
  
Octavia lips purse for a moment and she breathes deep, placing a hand heavily on Clarke’s shoulder.  
  
“I won’t lie to you, Clarkey,” she says, voice level. “I am high as a Georgia pine.”  
  
There’s silence between the three of them for several tense moments before Clarke hears a choking sound from behind her. She turns, and Raven’s hand is clamped over her mouth, ineffectively forcing her laughter down.  
  
“ _Raven_!”  
  
“I’m sorry, this is just… this is too damn much,” she squeaks, fanning her face, tears of mirth collecting in the corners of her eyes. “I mean, I’m a little angry you didn’t do it with _us_ first, but…”  
  
“Speaking of which, who _did_ you do it with?”  
  
Octavia scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder, red streaks catching the dim glow of the street lights.  
  
“You know I’m a virgin, Clarke, yet you insult me so.”  
  
Raven’s odd choking sounds begin anew, and Clarke pushes forward.  
  
“No, who did you _smoke_ with?”  
  
“Oh!” Octavia giggles. “Um, uh… Lincoln – “  
  
“Lincoln Hunter?” Clarke interrupts. She turns to Raven. “He’s on the senior basketball team, and he… _gets high_?”  
  
Octavia continues as if Clarke had never said a word, counting on her fingers. “ - Anya and Lexa Woods…”  
  
She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised, really, but the shock overtakes her anyway, accompanying the ever-present nudge of scorn that follows from the mere mention of the girl.  
  
“Right. Well, let’s go then,” Clarke declares, walking forward with no real direction of where Lexa is and no real idea of what exactly she’s going to do when she finds her.  
  
“Typically, I’d be all for these kind of hooligan antics but I’m going to be launched several feet in the air in mere minutes,” Raven interjects, linking her arm through Octavia’s and dragging her along, following quickly. “I’d rather not be inebriated when that happens.”  
  
Clarke scans the area, the parking lot to the left of them first – a couple of people milling around, but no disheveled auburn mane.  
  
“What? We’re not going to _join_ them. They’re smoking marijuana at a _high school football game_. A _Catholic_ high school football game. It’s… it’s sacrilegious.”  
  
A plume of smoke creeps out from under the bleachers ahead of them.  
  
_Bingo_.  
  
She’s sure she’s the absolute picture of stuck-up petulance, hands balled into fists so tightly Clarke is sure when she looks down at her palms they’ll be marked with angry little half-moon shapes. The lighting under the bleachers is dim, filtering through and making everything seem obscure, glowing with a fluorescent haze – it’s not dark enough, however, to miss the murky jade eyes that settle unflinchingly on Clarke as she approaches.  
  
“Can someone here, if they’re coherent enough, please explain _this_?”  
  
Raven holds Octavia in front of her as if she’s a proud second grader at show-and-tell. For her part, Octavia’s grin is wide and lazy – an almost formulaic depiction of an unapologetically _smashed_ teenager.  
  
“I’m sorry?” someone says, and Clarke has to squint to make out who the incredulous voice comes from.  
  
“Anya Woods.”  
  
The girl leans against a metal beam, one leg crossed over the other, and brings something to her mouth. The tip lights bright ember-orange. “Yeah, hi,” the girl responds, voice squeezed from holding in the fumes, greeting her as if Clarke is an afterthought.  
  
She stays silent, shifting a gaze to Lexa. Her lips are pulled up at the corners, her lids heavy, gazing at Clarke from under thick, dark eyelashes. Anya leans forward, offering something.  
  
“… What am I supposed to do with that?”  
  
Anya breathes out, smoke curling around her. She snorts, wiggling it back and forth.  
  
“It’s a joint. You smoke it?” she retorts, bringing it closer. A thin plume comes off of it and Clarke’s nose fills with the smell – pungent, herbal, spicy and sour all at once. “Hurry up, would you? It's running.”  
  
“You think that’s why I’m here?”  
  
“… Yes?”  
  
A chorus of low laughter comes from her right, and she can’t even try to stop the narrow-eyed glare that follows. Lincoln, all broad shoulders and intimidating stature, sits on the ground with one leg outstretched and one propped, his arm resting casually on a knee; Lexa is perched on a metal beam parallel to the ground, one leg hanging, swinging, the other bent in front of her.  
  
Lexa pulls a lip between her teeth. Clarke averts her eyes.  
  
Octavia creeps out, almost skipping over to Lincoln’s spot on the ground and heavily plopping down beside him. They turn to each other, bowing their heads and speaking in low, secretive murmurs.  
  
_Huh. Well, that’s new._  
  
“Clarke,” Raven interrupts. “Five minutes left and counting.”  
  
“What about you, Reyes?” Anya says, her voice almost provoking.  
  
Raven pauses, unsure. At Clarke’s wide-eyed look, she shakes her head quickly.  
  
“No,” she answers. Then, almost regretfully, “thanks for the offer though, it’s very… generous of you.”  
  
Anya retracts her arm and passes the object to Lexa. A conversation carries on between Raven and Anya, but she doesn’t hear a word of it. It’s almost like someone’s placed their hands over her ears. Lexa’s slender fingers hold the joint balanced between her index and middle finger almost delicately. Clarke follows her movements, watching as she parts her lips and places it between them, her cheeks sucking in slightly, chest expanding. She meets her merciless gaze and Lexa lets out the vapours. It’s thick, heady, and curls around her, framing her hair and making the already unruly locks look like a misty lion’s mane.  
  
Clarke has seen this in movies, people puffing and coughing, taking deep hits off large glass objects that look more modern art than paraphernalia. They bubble loudly and look awkward and idiotic. But this… Clarke isn’t sure if it’s the action itself or if it’s just Lexa, but this is unassuming, almost urbane.  
  
Lexa shifts then, gracefully hopping to the ground. She walks forward, languid steps that make bumps arise on bared legs. Clarke shifts her feet as the brunette stalks ever closer. She looks treacherous, dark. A panther, poised to strike.  
  
Which would make Clarke the prey.  
  
“You look petrified,” Lexa drawls, humor tainting her tenor. The joint is held in front of Lincoln as she passes by him, and he takes it gratefully. “What’s got you so spooked?”  
  
Her arms cross tight against her chest. Lexa stops only when her leather jacket brushes against Clarke’s elbows.  
  
“What are you so afraid of, Princess?”  
  
There are so many words poised on the tip of her tongue, Clarke is sure she might just scream them out. Yell until her throat is raw and ragged. In the close proximity, Clarke can smell her – leather and sweetness, peril and spice. The scent is mnemonic – she’s trapped between the present and past, under the bleachers with the incessant rumble of a crowd; the silver radiance of moonlight silhouetting a stolen moment in a hushed bedroom.  
  
_‘This is… I can’t. This isn’t me.’_  
  
I’m not like you.  
  
‘ _I understand.’_  
  
Why can’t I forget?  
  
_‘No, you don’t.’_  
  
It's your fault. It _has_ to be.  
  
“You.”  
  
Lexa draws in a breath, slow and shaky. Clarke’s arms wrap around her own ribs, less incensed now and more like a safeguard, a barricade. Their eyes meet and they’re locked in this moment for better or worse – this confession, this dreadful honesty.  
  
“Clarke,” Lexa breathes, the name like a prayer whispered in worship as it breaks past her lips.  
  
“Mija, we’ve got to go. _Now_.”  
  
Clarke steps back, anticipating the feeling of distance allowing her to breathe easier. It's the exact opposite. Her lungs constrict with every stride she takes away, and by the time she’s ducked under the bleachers and her sneakers land on the concrete of the sidewalk it feels like there’s a vice grip around her throat.  
  
The barely-concealed distress painted across Lexa’s features as she turned away should have brought Clarke satisfaction. Instead, it brought her an appalling sense of déjà vu.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
The parking lot is alight with jubilation, car horns honking and voices cheering. Clarke swings her duffel onto her shoulder, hair loose and ribbon tucked securely into a side pocket as she pushes through the throng to her car.  
  
“Close game, huh?”  
  
She opens her trunk door, taking almost too much care to place her bag inside.  
  
“Small talk? Really, Lexa?”  
  
Lexa toes a crack in the concrete below her with the side of her boot, hands loosely tucked into the pockets of her jeans as she leans against Clarke’s Jeep. She contrasts against the bright blue paint so starkly Clarke almost lets out a laugh at the sight.  
  
“I don’t see why not. This is the most civil you’ve been to me in a while,” she says. “How’s the weather up there, by the way?”  
  
“Up where?”  
  
“In your ivory tower.”  
  
Clarke snorts, shutting her trunk a little too roughly. A group passes by, one of the boys calling out to her.  
  
“Clarke! You coming to Murphy’s tonight?”  
  
She plasters on a smile. “I think I’ll sit this one out. Have a good time, though.” His name gets caught on her tongue when she realizes she doesn’t actually know it. The thought makes her feel uneasy – when had she become so disconnected from so much?  
  
There’s a few tense moments where Clarke watches the group melt back into the crowd, feeling Lexa’s eyes on her, intent and unflinching.  
  
“Do you even know who that was?”  
  
“Yeah, of course I do,” she says, head down as she leans against her driver’s side door, fidgeting with the keychains clipped onto her keys - a painted metal apple with ‘Clarke’ printed on it from a trip to New York jingles as it hits against a silver cross, and then a hand covers her own, stopping her ministrations.  
  
“Clarke.”  
  
“Why do you say my name like that?”  
  
Lexa pulls her hand away as if she’s been burned, and her eyes are so alight with sentiment when she looks up that it’s quite possible she might have been.  
  
“Like what?”  
  
She shakes her head, clenching her keys in her hand. Something presses painfully against her palm and she squeezes her fist tighter.  
  
“One minute I’m ‘ _Princess_ ’, and you’re smirking and being sarcastic and all around horrible. And then I’m Clarke, and it’s different. You’re a different person.”  
  
“Does it really matter? You hate whoever I am.”  
  
The silence that lingers while Clarke tries to formulate a response is all it takes for Lexa’s face to draw back into its usual expression – cynical apathy.  
  
“Wow. I thought maybe you’d be considerate enough to try and deny it,” she bites, stepping backward slowly.  
  
“That’s not fair. You didn’t give me any time to answer.”  
  
Lexa nods, sniffs, looks somewhere off to the side.  
  
“Like I said, _does it really matter_? I’m surprised you care enough to _want_ to answer.”  
  
“I _care_ enough to defend myself when someone attacks my character.”  
  
It's too familiar, the sharp laugh that Lexa barks out. Clarke closes her eyes for a moment.  
  
“Fuck, get a grip,” she responds, running a hand roughly through her hair.  
  
Clarke pushes off the car, striding forward with vexed momentum. Lexa doesn’t even flinch, just lifts her chin as Clarke approaches.  
  
“Why are you even here, Lexa? I don’t think there’s an ounce of school spirit in you, and there are much less inconspicuous places to… get high. So, _why_ are you here?” Clarke hisses, her hand coming to punctuate the ‘ _why_ ’ as she pushes against one of Lexa’s shoulders roughly. Her heartbeat reverberates in her ears, pounds against her chest fast and angry. Lexa is silent, her shoulders squared.  
  
“Why aren’t you answering me?” Clarke presses. She pushes her shoulder again. “ _Why are you here_?” Another shove.  
  
Lexa’s hand grabs Clarke’s wrist when she reaches to prod her again. She leans forward. All Clarke can smell is cinnamon.  
  
“You know the answer to that.”  
  
Lexa lets go of her wrist, walking backward into the mob of people. She’s disappeared into the horde before Clarke can even think to respond.  
  
There’s a sharp stinging from her hand and she finally unclenches her fist. Pressed into her palm is an almost perfect imprint of a cross, red and angry around the edges, her skin nearly broken through.  
  
Clarke’s feet are off the ground, swept up as she’s grasped around the middle and swung into a circle. When her feet come to rest on solid pavement once more, she’s face-to-face with a damp mop of black curls and a dimpled smile.  
  
“Congratulations, Bell!” Her voice sounds off – it’s breathless and breaks on the first word.  
  
“Thanks… Hey, you okay? You sound strange,” he says, placing a hand to her back.  
  
“Yeah, just… cheering, you know. Takes a lot out of a girl.” The excuse is good. Entirely believable.  
  
Except to Bellamy Blake. He purses his lips. She spots the rest of their friends approaching over his shoulder, and her eyes widen.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” she leans in, her voice just a murmur. “Not now.”  
  
Bellamy’s eyes stay on her as she’s lifted into the air once more by Finn, the dark orbs narrowed and calculating.  
  
“We’ve done it, Griffo! We’ve slain the Ice Nation!” Finn shouts, squeezing her sides.  
  
“A miraculous feat,” she retorts.  
  
Finn rolls his eyes, throws an arm around her shoulder. _Normal. This is what normal is like._  
  
“I strongly resent that.”  
  
Clarke looks around their group as they all gather and notices one very crucial missing piece.  
  
“Where’s Octavia?”  
  
As if her life wasn’t one twisted joke as it is…  
  
The crowd disperses for a moment and there’s a clear view of a Mustang, almost glittering even in the stark artificial parking lot lights. Anya slumps casually in the passenger’s seat, Lincoln leaning out over the side from the backseat, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Octavia’s ear. The action is tender, entirely too sweet and it feels a little like they’re intruding by looking. Lexa sits in the driver’s seat, head tilted back against the headrest.  
  
Octavia steps away from the car with a final lingering glance at Lincoln, who settles back into his seat as the engine starts with a roar. Lexa wastes no time in peeling out of the parking lot, not a glance spared as she does.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
_One year earlier...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“They can’t do this…”  
  
“We can find a way to help.”  
  
“You can stay with me. My parents like you more than me, anyway.”  
  
The young girl sighs, and a tragic smile settles on her lips. Her head rests on the blonde’s shoulder.  
  
“There’s nothing we can do. It’s already done.”  
  
Clarke wraps an arm around the ebony-haired girl’s shoulders, mind buzzing.  
  
“I can’t believe she did this to you.”  
  
This changes her friend’s tone.  
  
“She didn’t do anything, Clarke.”  
  
She sniffs. The girl raises her head, eyes alight now.  
  
“I’m serious. None of this is her fault, and you can’t blame her for it. I don’t, so you can’t either. It’s… it’s not allowed.”  
  
A smile pulls at Clarke’s mouth, though she wills it not to.  
  
Raven pokes Clarke’s rib.  
  
“You just got told.”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
Octavia nods, her head resting in Raven’s lap, her torso in Clarke’s, her legs in the last girl’s.  
  
“You did.”  
  
Clarke leans down, lifts the edge of Octavia’s shirt and blows a wet, sloppy raspberry against the middle of her stomach.  
  
Laughter erupts from the four of them, loud and full of mirth, before it dissolves into abruptly tense stillness.  
  
Clarke swallows, her throat suddenly dry. The weight of the moment – their first real crisis, bigger than crushes or failed tests or embarrassing spills in school hallways – is substantial. This is a factual, tangible, serious, immense calamity that they can’t fix with a wish and a prayer.  
  
The girl turns, meets each of their eyes and doesn’t fight the tears that collect and fall in delicate streams down the sunset-gold bronze of her cheek._  
  
_“We’ll figure it out. I promise, Costia.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I apologize profusely, because I left you guys hanging for much too long without any explanations and any idea of when I was going to update. I really was stuck - it was horrible and frustrating and, ultimately, inspired me to make a [Tumblr](https://astrangecupoftea.tumblr.com/) so if I'm being the worst, I can at least let you guys know. Questions, comments, what you had for lunch today - send it on over! Hopefully, if I get myself together enough, I'll be posting updates about updates (does that make any sense?) and maybe some spoilers and deleted scene thingies. Yes, I am an adult. Yes, I just said 'thingies'.
> 
> The one thing that helped me push through the Great Mind Block of 2k16 were your comments. I don't even want to say how many times I re-read each of them. You guys... you're all so, so lovely and I loved seeing what you're all thinking so far - be it compliments, constructive criticism or even an 'update, you fool' - every word means so much, I can't even express. Thank you, thank you.
> 
> Until next time. xx


	5. let me come undone in your house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High school AU with a party scene? Truly shocking!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's 'bedroom playlist' is a whole lot of Failure and a little bit of Jimmy Eat World, because she is my favourite angsty teen mess. My recommendations for this chapter are 'Undone' and 'Another Space Song' by Failure (is this her favorite band? I haven't really decided yet), and 'Bleed American' by Jimmy Eat World.
> 
> Enjoy, and I'll see you at the bottom!
> 
> (Warning: there's some religious mumbo-jumbo in the end little bit of this. It was weird to write so many apologies if it was also pretty weird to read.)

 

 

> _"It may serve, let us hope, to symbolize some sweet moral blossom that may be found along the track…."_  
>  \- _Nathaniel Hawthorne, ‘The Scarlet Letter’  
>    
>    
>    
>    
>  _

* * *

_  
  
  
  
  
_ The pen scratches roughly against paper, striking a firm, black line across the page. Lexa’s hand smudges the ink as she crosses more sentences out, dropping smudgy dots along the ruled sheet.  
  
_Let’s try this again._  
  
_‘In the first chapter of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘The Scarlet Letter’, Hawthorne writes of the ~~fucking shit fuck fuck fuck this who gives homework in the first week of class fucking shit~~ …’  
  
Alright, well, I definitely can’t hand _that _in._  
  
Another strike through.  
  
The paper rips, her pen going straight through to the next page.  
  
Lexa throws the black ballpoint down, wondering who in the hell decided writing this report long-hand was a good idea. She grabs the paper, crumpling it in between her hands and launching it successfully into the garbage can, leaning back in her desk chair, a satisfied grin pulling up the corners of her lips. It was fruitless at this point to try and work on any part of this God-forsaken book report and the stress was making her itch for a smoke.  
  
She pauses, considering… and then stands, moving quickly around the room, going through the motions like a seasoned professional – two hand towels from the bathroom; close and lock the door and tuck them snugly into the crack between door and hardwood; grab the ashtray stored in the bedside table drawer; open the window, wide. She starts her laptop, switching on her favorite playlist for good measure and connecting it to her speakers.  
  
Deliciously distorted guitar chords pour through her speakers, reverberate against the walls. Lexa’s head moves back and forth, listening, long curtains of silky auburn swaying. She strips her off her polo shirt, leaving her in a white tank top and black jeans, dark bra peeking over the neckline as she reaches into her worn brown leather messenger, producing a disposable pack of matches and box of Marlboro’s.  
  
Settling on the bed, her feet are on the ground while her hair splays behind her in a wave of brunette. Her ashtray is beside her and there’s finally a cigarette between her lips in seconds, match lit and _merciful God finally_.  
  
Smoke fills her lungs, warm and woodsy, and eyes become weighty. They close as heavy drum beats pulse against the floors, up toes and creeping up legs, settling in her chest. Her foot begins to tap of its own volition, free hand resting against her stomach and pit-pattering with the rhythm.  
  
Lexa’s wind wanders, lids closing as unsolicited visions of halos of hair and hazy cobalt eyes bleed into her mind’s eye – everything else is muddled in a cloud of intoxication but this one entity, this one _person_ … and it fucking _unnerves_ Lexa a hell of a lot more than it should.  
  
The next exhale of smoke shoots from between her lips fast and hard and a scoff is carried along with it.  
  
She had asked what Clarke was afraid of, and her answer had been…  
  
_Fuck._  
  
She said she was afraid. Of her.  
  
Lexa’s teeth bite down hard on her bottom lip, opening her eyes and tapping the spent vestiges at the end of the smoke into her ashtray.  
  
_Okay, so she’s afraid of you… this is good, right? It’s good, she’s… she_ should _be afraid of you.  
  
Even though you’ve given her no reason to be.  
  
… Right?  
  
_ The next drag she takes might be a little too overzealous, but who’s there to judge her? Just the ‘Big Man Upstairs’, yeah? She’s certain she’s the last blip on his radar right now. Her eyes close again and she’s almost successfully cleared her head, let nothing but melody fill every crevice of her mind…  
  
_Bang. Bang. Bang._  
  
“ _What the hell? Unlock your door, Lexa_.”  
  
Lexa rests the cigarette between her lips, leisurely getting up and walking over to her stereo.  
  
_Bang. Bang. Bangbangbang._  
  
“ _Open the door, you fucking asshole!”_  
  
The music is almost so loud, from this close proximity to the speakers, that every drum beat pangs against her eardrums. She cranks it louder.  
  
Lexa turns, looking out to the darkened night through the large window behind her desk. She’s running her free hand through her hair once more when there’s a disturbing ‘ _thunk_ ’ from behind her. She swivels around, then…  
  
“Anya… _what are you doing_?”  
  
Her sister is standing in the open doorframe, one hand on the knob and one clenched into a fist at her hip.  
  
“What does it look like I’m doing?”  
  
“Breaking into my god damn _room_?”  
  
Anya crosses the area in seconds, plucking the smoke from between her lips and promptly crushing it in the ashtray.  
  
“You’re _god damn_ right I’m breaking into your _god damn_ room.”  
  
Lexa’s mouth is agape, equal parts shock and horror.  
  
“You owe me a cigarette.”  
  
The older girl scoffs, perching herself on the edge of the bed.  
  
“I owe you no such thing. _You_ still owe _me_ a joint from the game.”  
  
The reminder of the night a few days prior makes Lexa wince slightly, and if Anya notices it she doesn’t say anything. Not for the first time, she finds herself thanking the higher up’s for Anya Woods.  
  
“We’ll call it a draw.”  
  
Anya smirks as Lexa leans against her dresser, crossing her arms.  
  
“I know you didn’t break into my room just to bother me… by the way, how _did_ you get in?”  
  
The other girl sniffs, inspects her nails. Lexa cocks a brow, studying her sister with a speculative eye.  
  
“Bobby pins. That’s a story for another time,” she rushes, ignoring Lexa’s narrow-eyed glower. “How would you feel about a party?”  
  
“Right now? I don’t know, An, I’m about to jump into my jammies and read myself a little bedtime story.”  
  
It’s Anya’s turn to lift a brow now, though a laugh escapes despite her sarcastic demeanour. “Lex, your version of a bedtime story is a cigarette and some kind of tattered old book about demure lesbians.”  
  
“ _’Tipping the Velvet’_ is a classic, Anya!”  
  
Anya rolls her eyes. “We get it, you’re gay…” – Lexa sputters at this, heated protestations poised on her tongue. Her sister holds a hand up to halt her, closing her eyes. “… Party _._ This weekend. Dad comes back next week; this might be our only chance to do something for a while.”  
  
Lexa rolls her eyes this time, looking to the ceiling, not letting Anya see the bitter expression gracing her features.  
  
“You really think he’s going to start keeping promises _now_?”  
  
Anya’s back straightens at this.  
  
“He said he was positive this time, Lex. If you had stuck around last time we had a Skype call, you would’ve seen him show me the plane ticket himself.”  
  
“Plane tickets mean shit to him. _Promises_ mean shit to him. When the fuck are you going to realize that, An?”  
  
Anya rises to her feet, stepping forward, her expression soft. Lexa tries to look for an out, but her sister knows her too well and has her nearly trapped.  
  
“And when are you going to have any faith?”  
  
_Faith._ A choked laugh sounds from her throat before she can stop it. Why does everything in her life come back to _faith_?  
  
Lexa’s jaw clenches and then her sister has her arms wrapped around her, tight but not too tight, and she’s relaxing, her jaw unclenching. Her chin rests on Anya’s shoulder, though her arms are still crossed and it’s a little awkward – Anya says as much and it hangs in the air for a moment before they’re both laughing a bit, and it’s weird but it’s so entirely _them_.  
  
“Saturday night, you dick,” she says into her ear, squeezing her a bit tighter for a moment before letting go. “Be there.”  
  
Lexa snorts, a grin settling on her lips as she watches Anya almost fucking _prance_ out of her room. “As if I have a choice.”  
  
“You’re right,” she responds over her shoulder, shutting the door behind her. “ _You don’t!_ ”  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
If there’s one thing to be said for Anya Woods, it’s that she knows how to throw together a damn good party.  
  
“Remind me again why I need to be here?”  
  
Anya lifts her head from the headrest, throwing a side-eyed glare at Lexa.  
  
“Because your trunk can hold a keg… also, I need your muscles to help me get all this shit into the house.”  
  
Lexa’s eye roll only gets her a swift hit to the arm, which she returns with just as much fervor. They’re saved from an all-out brawl when a clear voice interrupts them.  
  
“Can you two act like adults for one minute, please? Or at least wait until we get out of the parking lot,” the woman says, shopping cart rolling to a stop. “I think the cashier might be watching us through the window.”  
  
Lexa snorts, getting out to help lift everything into her trunk.  
  
“First of all; we aren’t actually adults yet, Luna. Secondly; the cashier can suck it. This is bought and paid for already, no way I’m giving it up now,” Anya responds, facing herself toward the back of the car, knees on the seat and folded arms sitting atop the headrest.  
  
“If they came out here and asked to see our I.D.’s, I don’t think they’d stop at a simple confiscation,” Lexa huffs, hauling the first keg over into her trunk.  
  
“If I’m going to be in handcuffs at some point tonight, I sure as hell don’t want it to be in the back of a police cruiser on my way to the pokey,” Luna mumbles.  
  
“’The pokey’? See, when you say shit like that it’s hard to believe you’re only 21,” Anya sighs. “Makes you sound more like 51.”  
  
“Kiss my ass, Anya.”  
  
“Been there, done that.”  
  
“ _Okay_ , _gross_ ,” Lexa says, throwing her hands up in surrender. “This is gross, _please_ stop. _Please, please_ stop.”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
“ _Lexa!_ ”  
  
Heavy arms settle around her shoulders, the unmistakable stench of spiced rum and coke washing over her face and neck. Lexa grimaces, patting her back.  
  
“Anya, how much have you had to drink?”  
  
Her sister pulls back a bit and thrusts her hand in front of Lexa’s face, holding her index finger and thumb an inch apart.  
  
“Just a _bit_ ,” she retorts. Lexa’s expression is all amused disapproval. “Don’t judge me. You’re judging me. What about _you_?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
Anya jerks her head back, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, _what was that_?”  
  
“Nothing, I haven’t had anything to drink.”  
  
Lexa knows why she looks so damn incredulous. Given the opportunity – free alcohol, her own house – she should be halfway to passed out on the floor of her bedroom by now. She’s even surprised at herself.  
  
“S’everything okay, Lex?”  
  
She scans her face, a smile stretched on her lips; even on the brink of complete intoxication, her sister pulls herself out of it just enough to _still_ worry about Lexa.  
  
She sighs, pulls away and holds Anya in front of her, hands on her upper arms.  
  
“I am fine. I’m just going to head upstairs. I’ll have my cellphone close by, call if you need anything. Alright?”  
  
Anya nods, launches herself forward to wrap her up in another slightly sloppy hug and then pulls away, weaving back into the fray.  
  
Lexa makes her way quickly upstairs, straight down the hall to her bedroom. There’s a couple of people leaning over the bannister and someone impatiently waiting for the bathroom but other than that, the upper floor is surprisingly devoid of action. She breathes a sigh of relief, sneaking into her room virtually unnoticed.  
  
Once her door is closed, the pounding of music and dissonance of voices from downstairs barely registers as more than a droning buzz that vibrates against her floors, and it’s all but drowned out when she opens her laptop on her desk and starts her music, song pouring through her stereo.  
  
It’s not until she’s got a cigarette poised between her lips, about to strike a match that she’s realized she _forgot her motherfucking cellphone_. She can see it in her mind’s eye, sitting on the edge of the marbled kitchen island.  
  
With a grumble and a frustrated sigh, she tucks her smoke behind her ear and stalks back out of her bedroom, shutting the door. There’s a crowd to push through just outside of the kitchen and then she’s shouldering past a bunch of jocks crowded around one of the kegs and _ah-ha!_  
  
She grasps her phone triumphantly from the countertop and swings around, poised to make a record-breaking sprint to her room.  
  
Instead, she comes face-to-chest with Bellamy Blake.  
  
“ _Christ_!” she jumps, hand coming to rub at her aching nose. “What the fuck are you made of, Blake? _Steel_?”  
  
The boy smiles, puffing his chest out.  
  
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.”  
  
Lexa rolls her eyes, moving to brush past him. He reaches out, puts a hand on her shoulder to stop her – and immediately pulls it away when she turns, fixing a pointed glare at the offending appendage.  
  
“ _Sorry_ , I… do you know where your sister is?” he stutters, breath strong with the smell of warm beer as he pulls his hand away and places it on the back of his neck. The other grasps a red solo cup.  
  
There’s a pause, where there’s the incessant drone of talking and the distant ‘ _thud_ ’ of music and Lexa studies him as he studies the floor.  
  
“I’m not too sure,” she finally says, voice inquisitive and wary. “ _Why_?”  
  
He coughs, brings the cup up to his lips as he says, faux-casual, “just, uh… just wanted to thank her for throwing such a kick-ass party.”  
  
Lexa narrows her eyes, backing away slowly. “ _Right_ … well, if I see her, I’ll be sure to pass on the sentiment.”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Her bedroom door is open when reaches the hallway.  
  
Her bedroom door is open and she’s _absolutely fucking sure_ she closed it when she left.  
  
She slows as she approaches the door, the cacophonous chords of music still leaking through the speakers…  
  
She’s not quite sure she’s prepared for what she sees when she silently leans in the doorway.  
  
Clarke is standing in the middle of her room, and though her back is to Lexa she can see her arms are crossed unsurely against her chest, a red cup in one hand. She’s looking around deliberately, eyes scanning every inch of the area. And then she’s moving, over to her bookshelf to the right, running the tips of her fingers over the spines.  
  
“Didn’t peg you for the ‘breaking and entering’ type, Princess.”  
  
Clarke starts, pulling her hand back quickly and turning toward the door.  
  
“ _Lexa_. Um… hi.”  
  
She raises her eyebrows and pushes off the frame. Clarke looks thoroughly caught, her cheeks red, eyes trained cautiously on Lexa as if she’s a wild animal waiting to pounce.  
  
_That’s because she’s_ scared _of you, you asshole._  
  
The thought creeps, unbidden, into her mind as she sits on her bed and settles against her headboard, crossing her legs at the ankles.  
  
“Do you mind telling me why, exactly, you’re in my bedroom?”  
  
“I didn’t know it was your room.”  
  
Lexa pulls her cigarette from behind her ear and poises it between her lips, taking her ashtray from her bedside table drawer and placing it atop the surface.  
  
“I find that entirely too hard to believe,” she mumbles, pulling her pack of matches out from her bra. She looks up just in time to catch the hard swallow that distorts Clarke’s throat, her eyes locked on Lexa’s movements.  
  
_Okay, what the hell is that about?_  
  
“Trust me, if I had known this was your room… I would’ve stayed _far_ away.”  
  
“So why are you still here?”  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“ _Why are you still here_?”  
  
Clarke blinks, opens and closes her mouth. Then her back is straightened and her chin is raised in defiance and she’s striding quickly toward the door.  
  
“You don’t even want to be at this party, do you?”  
  
She stops so quickly Lexa is surprised she doesn’t trip over her own feet. Clarke tilts her head, just enough that when she looks over she can see Clarke’s deep frown in profile.  
  
“It’s fine, if you don’t. I get it.”  
  
The girl scoffs, shakes her head, and her hair catches the dim light and looks golden for a moment.  
  
“You, of all people? I sincerely doubt it,” she grumbles, turning around to face Lexa again. “Why aren’t you out there, anyway? I would think you’d take any excuse to have a good time.”  
  
She snorts, plucks a match out and doesn’t light it for a moment, just twirls it between her fingers.  
  
“That’s the point,” she sighs, striking the match. “I wouldn’t _be_ having a good time.”  
  
Lexa meets her eyes as she takes a long drag, holds it, lets it curl out between her lips and up.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
She shrugs, crosses one arm just under her chest as the other taps wasted ashes off into the tray.  
  
Clarke shifts her feet and Lexa takes the lull in conversation – she stops to consider just how fucking weird it is that her and Clarke Griffin are having an actual conversation – to look at the blonde. Her hair is messy, pulled back into a bun. She’s in a soft, loose sweater, ripped and worn jeans, scuffed Converse sneakers…  
  
“Did your friends force you to come?”  
  
Her anxious look is all the confirmation Lexa needs.  
  
“What? Why… why do you say that?”  
  
“You look like you were in the middle of doing anything _but_ getting ready for a party.”  
  
Clarke nods. “I was studying.”  
  
Lexa laughs then, and Clarke jumps at the sound. She looks so god damn hesitant in that moment, so unsure that it kind of makes Lexa empathize with her.  
  
“You can hide out here, if you want.”  
  
Apparently, that was the completely wrong fucking thing to say. Lexa knows it as soon as Clarke’s eyes harden and her shoulders square.  
  
“Why in the world would I want to spend any extended period of time with you?”  
  
“Because the alternative is being forced to drink more shitty beer and dance with even shittier people.”  
  
Lexa isn’t even sure why she’s trying. Up until this point, she had been perfectly content with waiting the party out, killing time until she inevitably had to kick out the stragglers and tend to Anya’s hangover. Instead…  
  
“Unless you’re scared.”  
  
It’s a terrible tactic. A little mean too, if she’s honest, but her and Clarke don’t really work in morals and honesty. They work in malicious remarks and acerbic glowers, in comments that strike bottomless and profound, deeper than they should. They work in words that hit harder than either of them expects.  
  
So Lexa uses Clarke’s own words against her. And it cuts deep. And Clarke cuts deeper still.  
  
“I’m not scared,” she retorts, tone glacial. “I just don’t see the point in wasting my time being around people I abhor.”  
  
_‘You hate whoever I am.’  
  
_ She smirks, voice fire, hot enough to melt ice. “You seemed to like it, once upon a time.”  
  
Clarke swallows. Lexa watches her throat bob past a cloud of smoke, and she knows she’s got her hooked now.  
  
_For better or fucking worse.  
  
_ “Sit wherever you want, Princess. Just close the door first.”  
  
Clarke huffs and turns, shutting the door so hard a framed picture on the wall shudders in its wake. When she reels back to face the room, Lexa can see her calculating, mind working through the best place to sit – there’s the desk chair; her reading nook, a pile of large pillows tucked into the corner beside her bookshelf; another chair in the corner beside her bathroom door; her bed.  
  
Clarke chooses the desk chair. Her posture is almost painfully straight as she perches almost on the edge, taking a tentative sip of her drink.  
  
Lexa sinks deeper against her headboard, watching Clarke from under her lashes. The song changes and Lexa hums, bobbing her head along with the heavy harmonies.  
  
“What band is this? I’ve… I’ve never heard them.”  
  
“Do you like it?”  
  
Clarke’s shoulders sag a bit as she nods, brow furrowed.  
  
Lexa’s smile is annoyingly genuine as she gets up from her bed, heading over to her dresser and rifling through the stack of CD’s sitting beside her stereo. She grabs the right one and holds it out to Clarke. The girl puts her drink down on the desk behind her and reaches out, taking it from Lexa.  
  
“What is this?” she asks, flipping the case over in her hands and reading the track list on the back.  
  
“It’s… an album?”  
  
Clarke rolls her eyes, and is that a _smile_? She purses her lips for a second before speaking. “ _I know that_. Why are you giving it to me?”  
  
“Take it, listen to it. Everything in the middle half is kind of forgettable, but everything after that…” Lexa whistles. “Brilliant. Even better when you’re high.”  
  
“I can’t say I relate.”  
  
“I didn’t expect you to.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
Lexa sighs, holding her hands up.  
  
“Nothing. Fucking… forget I said anything.”  
  
She leans against the end of her bed, one arm crossed over her chest, hand resting against her opposite bicep. There’s a few moments of silence, and her thumb is picking at the filter of her smoke when Clarke speaks up again.  
  
“How long have you been smoking for?”  
  
“Couple of years,” she sniffs. “Why?”  
  
“What does – what does it… _taste_ like?”  
  
Lexa regards her for a second, fingers fiddling with the plastic edges of the CD case, nail running along the textured sides. She keeps her cigarette between her lips and moves, kneeling in front of Clarke.  
  
“What are you doing?” she hisses, reeling back a bit.  
  
“You’re awfully full of questions tonight, aren’t you?”  
  
Her jaw clenches. Lexa rolls her eyes.  
  
“Just relax. Close your eyes, open your mouth a bit… and don’t hit me.”  
  
Clarke sighs but places the disk in her lap and shifts, tucking her hands underneath of her and sitting firmly on them. She opens her mouth a bit, raises her eyebrows as if to say ‘is that good enough for you?’ Lexa smirks, takes a short drag of her cigarette and poises it between her index and middle finger as she rests her hands on both sides of the other girl, palms flat to the seat of the chair.  
  
Clarke’s eyes close and Lexa breathes out, slowly, letting the small amount of smoke twist around her face and disappear.  
  
When her eyes open her lids are heavy, weighted and it takes a long moment for Lexa to realize she’s much too close, close enough that she can feel Clarke’s hot breath against her mouth when the girl exhales. She doesn’t move away.  
  
“How does it taste?”  
  
She blinks a few times and closes her mouth. Lexa licks her lips; Clarke’s eyes track the action.  
  
“It… I’m –“  
  
“ _Clarke?_ ”  
  
Lexa stands up so quickly the edges of her vision turn to static, sound becoming muffled. The door of her room swings open.  
  
“What are you guys doing here?”  
  
Lexa busies herself, walking over to her dresser and snuffing her cigarette out.  
  
“God, Griffin, you can’t just disappear like that,” Raven sighs, hooking her arm through the blonde’s and pulling her up.  
  
“I – I don’t…” Clarke stumbles, looking at Lexa.  
  
“What were you guys up to?” Octavia chimes in, sitting down in the desk chair and spinning once, twice.  
  
Raven looks at Clarke, looks at Lexa, raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Clarke needed a bathroom, the one in the hall was taken. I offered mine,” she shrugs, feigning nonchalance.  
  
“Okay... well, we should get going before your mom has a conniption. Told Mama Griff I’d have you home by 11,” Raven says, slurring a bit. “Catch you later, Woods.”  
  
Lexa watches them walk toward her door. Octavia stumbles. Lexa shoots up.  
  
“Wait, _hold on_ a fucking second. Are any of you sober?”  
  
The three girls look at each other, look at Lexa.  
  
“No, but Bell drove us here. He probably is,” Octavia says, smile wide.  
  
Bellamy - red solo cup in hand, breath smelling of beer in her kitchen, Bellamy. She runs a hand through her hair, grabs her keys off her dresser and looks at the trio expectantly.  
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  
  
Lexa wonders, hands clenched around the wheel, when her life turned into a gigantic ironic twist.  
  
Because of course Clarke’s house is furthest from her own.  
  
Of course she would be the last to be dropped off.  
  
Of course she would be stuck beside her, the light pitter-patter of late-night rain bouncing off the top of her car.  
  
_Of-fucking-course_ she would be.  
  
“Turn right here,” Clarke whispers, head resting against the window.  
  
“Yeah. I remember.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
They’re silent the rest of the way, and it’s not until the tires of Lexa’s car crunch against the gravel of the Griffin household’s driveway that either of them speak.  
  
“Thanks… for the ride.”  
  
Lexa nods, not daring to look at her.  
  
“And the CD.”  
  
She pulls her lip bottom lip into her mouth, biting down in an effort to keep silent.  
  
She hears Clarke sigh before the door opens. There’s a moment where the other girl hesitates before climbing out and shutting it behind her.  
  
Lexa doesn’t pull away until Clarke unlocks her door.  
  
She pretends not to notice the blonde in her rear view mirror standing on her doorstep, watching her drive away.  


 

* * *

 

  


The welcoming smell of moss and musk hits her, along with the honey-sweet aroma of faded Autumn sunlight hitting the damp, orange-tipped leaves hanging from the trees.

 

“My girl,” she stops just inside the opening in the bushes, her arms out and wide. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

 

Lexa tucks her plaid skirt under her as she sits, turning and spreading her legs out on the length of the bench seat. Rough, greying wood scrapes slightly against her bare legs, squeaks against the dew clinging to the leather of her boots.

 

She’s halfway through a smoke when there’s a rustling from behind the bushes. Her back tenses, brain on high alert, running through the list of people that know about her and Darlene – God, that sounds a bit wrong, doesn’t it? Like Darlene is her mistress and she’s sneaking off for secret trysts…

 

Not a bad metaphor, actually.

 

“I thought I’d find you holed away in here, Woods.”

 

Lexa relaxes, her back against the arm of the bench. “Lincoln, Christ…”

 

Lincoln’s face turns into a mask of faux-confusion. “My last name is Hunter. Are you sure all you smoke back here is cigarettes?”

 

“Bite me.”

 

“With relish.”

 

Lexa’s laughter comes more easily than it has in days and she wonders, not for the first time, just how in the hell Lincoln has that effect on people – putting them at ease, making them feel comfortable. She wishes she had that. Instead, she scares people.

 

Makes them afraid of her.

 

Lincoln lifts her legs and settles them back down into his lap as he sits heavily on the bench, the old wood creaking with the effort of supporting them both.

 

“Poor Darlene,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Old girl hasn’t seen this kind of action in decades.”

 

“That’s…”

 

“Kind of gross,” he says, wrinkling his nose a bit and nodding.

 

Lexa snorts and they settle into a comfortable silence, Lincoln’s head lulled back as he looks up and out through the treetops while she finishes off the last of her cigarette, reaching down to smother it off into the ground and discarding the end off to the side. Lincoln ‘tsk’s and she arches a brow.

 

“You need a garbage can over here.”

 

“No way. It’ll ruin the vibe.”

 

“The ‘vibe’?” Lincoln asks, an amused expression playing on his features.

 

“Yeah, the vibe. Our vibe, Darlene and I. It’s all very organic, really natural…”

 

Lexa trails off as she watches him reach over and pluck a red gum wrapper from the ground.

 

“Yes, very organic. ‘Big Red’ is 100% naturally derived. They grow it in bogs down in Louisiana.”

 

“You didn’t know that?”

 

Lincoln shakes his head, smile growing wider at Lexa’s dry humor.

 

“Yeah, they grow it in bogs and they have alligators come and chomp them down.”

 

The man’s expression falters for a moment, and it’s all it takes for them to finally break. They’re in a fit for a few moments before a clear voice interrupts them.

 

“Lincoln?”

 

They both look to the side, and from where Lexa’s sitting she can see who the question is coming from.

 

“Your girl is down on the track.”

 

Lincoln perks up immediately and she takes her legs out of his lap, nodding toward the gap in the trees.

 

He's stepping back out through the bushes when he realizes Lexa isn’t actually behind him and turns. “Um… Lexa? You’re going to be late for mass.”

 

Lexa tucks her hair behind her ear and shrugs. “That’s kind of the point.”

 

Lincoln rolls his eyes, the gesture grand and exaggerated, though a kind smile stretches across his mouth.

 

“Come _on_ , Lex.”

 

It’s almost frustrating how easily she caves to her friends, especially ones she’s known for years like Lincoln. Even now, though he’s a year older and off to officially start his life as a full-fledged adult in just a few month’s time, Lexa can still clearly see the version of him that wore baggy basketball jerseys and had a ridiculous gap in his teeth, who used to visit Lexa and Anya at their old house in their old town and would shoot hoops in their backyard well into the night.

 

She gets up, secreting her pack under the slightly baggy fabric of her blazer just against her bicep, and follows him out of the clearing. And she absolutely does not think about stashing them under the bench, under a pile of leaves. Not for a second.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

If you had told Lexa Woods that morning, before her boots met with the creaky, worn-down wooden floors of the church, that she would be spending mass sitting in between her sister and Clarke Griffin…

 

Well, if recent events were anything to go by, she shouldn’t really be all that surprised.

 

Through some unbelievable stroke of irony – or maybe divine intervention - Lexa, Lincoln and Octavia had come to Sunday mass at a reasonable time… and the rest of the student body had apparently decided to as well.

 

The main foyer of the church was bustling, peers filing into the main section ahead of them and up two small flights of stairs to the mezzanine at the top. Lincoln, miles taller than everyone there – “basketball perks,” he had grinned – easily spotted Anya in one of the middle pews off to the left. And as they had approached, Raven Reyes also came into view, leaning casually against the side of a polished wooden bench and talking animatedly.

 

“… So I ran a diagnostic through, just to be certain, and sure as shit – “

 

“The ‘check engine’ light shut off? Just like that?” Anya asked, brows deeply furrowed as she listened, intent.

 

“Just like that. Easy as pie, dude.”

 

“Hey, Raven… and Anya,” Octavia said, eyes narrowing as she glanced between the two girls.

 

“Lexa?” Anya questioned, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

 

All eyes turned to Lexa, who just held her crossed arms tighter to her chest and shrugged.

 

“… Nothing?”

 

“So, why are you here?”

 

A beat.

 

“Sunday mass is pretty much mandatory? Anya, what are you – “

 

Her sister shakes her head, chunky waves bouncing around her face. “You’re never here this early. There must be something wrong.”

 

“I was forced into it by Lincoln,” Lexa explains, and Anya nods solemnly like she understands all too well. “Reyes,” she addresses the girl to her left, tilting her head up in greeting.

 

“Woods. We’re looking especially stoic this morning, what’s the occasion?”

 

Lexa smiles – actually fucking smiles, God, what the fuck is happening? “No occasion, just the usual general contempt and antipathy.”

 

“A worthy cause,” Raven smirks, and then holds her arm out like an usher at a movie theatre. “Shall we?”

 

They file in, Lincoln first followed by Octavia, Raven and Anya with Lexa at the end of the pew. The jarring sounds of the organ player pressing against a few keys in preparation makes an uncomfortable feeling creep up the back of Lexa’s neck, warm and unwelcome. She shifts, undoing the top button of her black polo shirt.

 

The first notes of the opening song start. There’s shuffling and creaking as everyone rises from their seats, and Lexa doesn’t have to open any booklets to recognize the song immediately – ‘Gloria’ rings throughout the chapel, and her lips form soundlessly around the words, muscle memory at this point. Sister Diana sits in a pew three in front and across the middle aisle of them and she turns, scanning the faces of every student. She pauses as her eyes come to rest on Lexa and then narrow into a bitter expression, such a contrast to the devotional words that flow freely from her mouth.

 

Lexa lifts a hand, gives a four-finger wave; Sister Diana turns away, her face painted in scorn.

 

Someone sidles up next to her and she can hear their laboured breathing. She almost turns to question why, of all places, they chose to stand beside _her_ when a gentle voice begins to sing along with the congregation.

 

“Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world. Have mercy on us…”

 

Lexa does turn then, and she’s met with a very flustered Clarke, cheeks flushed pink with exertion, eyes still slightly puffy like she’s just woken up. Her jacket is hung over her arm and she’s trying unsuccessfully to pat down the frizzy fly-away hairs that sprout from her loose locks.

 

And she smells… pretty. Like sleep-soft cotton and something sweet and floral, light like sunshine. Lexa stops breathing through her nose.

 

Clarke glances at her from the side of her eye, and her singing falters.

 

She song comes to a close and there’s more wood groaning, shoes squeaking against the floor. When they sit, Clarke’s shoulder is pressed flush against Lexa’s and though they both try, there is no room for them to shift away from each other. The contact feels like it's pressing not only against her side, but against Lexa’s chest – she takes slow, even breaths.

 

“There were no other seats,” Clarke mumbles, draping her coat over the side of the pew and folding her hands in her lap.

 

“Okay.”

 

“I wanted to sit before... before I got caught. I didn’t even see you.”

 

“Right.”

 

Clarke turns to her then and Lexa looks forward so quickly she’s surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash.

 

“I don’t know why I’m trying to explain myself to you,” she says. They rise as Father Titus and the altar boy’s procession passes them and Clarke’s voice drops to a whisper, her head ducking down. “ _I don’t need to_.”

 

The corner of Lexa’s lip shifts and she can see Clarke narrow her eyes at the action from her peripheral vision as her body angles toward the blonde. “You’re right, you don’t… so why are you?”

 

Their eyes meet. There’s a long moment where they scan each other’s faces – Lexa has no idea why her chest lurches when she passes over Clarke’s mouth, her bottom lip in between her teeth.

 

“ _In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit_ …”

 

Their regards never waver and Lexa’s mouth quirks into an amused little smirk.

 

“ _Amen_.”

 

Clarke’s eyes narrow and Lexa wonders why this feels like a challenge.

 

“ _The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you_ …”

 

Clarke’s cheeks are an alarming shade of pink. It almost makes her beam more.

 

“ _Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ_.”

 

The words echo around them, bounce off stained glass and reverberate against polished wooden beams.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, turning away with an air of finality as they settle back down. Lexa sinks into her seat, crossing her arms.

 

As if mass wasn’t long enough…

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Father Titus speaks of temptation today.

 

“ _Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death_.”

 

The man stops then, looks out over the crowd of young faces with something strange written on his face. Lexa thinks it looks a little bit like disdain.

 

“You are all at an age of tumult. The evil pull of desire may never entice you more than it does now… but I urge you, as children of our Lord and heavenly Father, heed His warnings. Second Peter 2:9 _, ‘if this is so, then the Lord knows how to rescue the godly from trials and to hold the unrighteous for punishment on the day of judgment_.’”

 

She can feel Clarke shift uneasily in her seat as she uncrosses and crosses her legs. Lexa keeps her head forward as she looks to the side; the girl’s hands are clenched together, knuckles white.

 

Foolishly, unthinkingly, she places her hand firmly atop the clasped grip.

 

Once she’s cognizant of her actions she’s fully prepared for some type of outburst. Her hand doesn’t move but her shoulders brace for impact when the blonde looks down, silently regarding, and Lexa doesn’t fucking dare look over and try to read her expression.

 

The impact never comes.

 

Clarke’s shoulders sag, she pulls a hand out from beneath Lexa’s and places it over. Her movements are wholly uncertain, even a little obstinate, but it makes her heartbeat ring in her ears and she’s too shit-scared of the fallout to question it all.

 

Father Titus asks them to move themselves onto the kneelers for closing prayers.

 

Clarke drops their hands.

 

It's over before it’s even begun, and it was so quick she’s left wondering if it even happened at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Oops.
> 
> I'm embarrassingly active over on my [Tumblr](https://astrangecupoftea.tumblr.com/), where I make well-meaning yet poorly executed moodboards and reblog a lot of character aesthetics.
> 
> I don't think I'll ever stop saying thank you for all your reviews and sweet words. I'm in awe at every comment I receive, it still blows my mind that anyone is reading at all, let alone enjoying enough to leave the nice reviews you all do. Many gratitude-filled hugs. :)
> 
> Until next time. xx
> 
> P.S. [This is a prayer kneeler.](http://www.churchproducts.com/replacement-pew-kneelers.jpg) They feel just as awkward as they look and bruise the hell out of your knees (no pun intended).


	6. since i kissed her loving lips of wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for 50's soda parlors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I am the worst at being consistent. More apologies await at the bottom. Special thanks to elyciabenzo on Tumblr for helping me push through my writer's block. :) Song suggestions for this chapter are 'Stupid Cupid' by Connie Francis, and 'Kill' by Jimmy Eat World.
> 
> Just for reference, Camden is modeled after Lily Collins' character from the movie 'Abduction'. Enjoy, and I'll see you at the bottom!

  
  
  
  
The door shuts and try as she might, Clarke can’t stop the heavy wood from slamming a bit behind her as she enters the foyer of her home.  
  
“Clarke?”  
  
She’s just hanging her jacket, shaking off the last of the residual chill that lingers on her skin from outside when her mother steps through the archway, wiping her hands on a kitchen cloth.  
  
“Hey, Mom,” she responds after a beat, blowing a loose bit of hair from her eyes. “Something smells good.”  
  
Abby Griffin eyes her daughter with the speculative, calculating glance only a mother could give. She takes inventory of the way the girl shifts on her feet, her cheeks splotchy-pink flushed and her eyes wide, darting to the stairs with an eager impatience.  
  
“… It’s a roast,” she says slowly, still scanning Clarke. Her daughter swallows. “No cheer practice today?”  
  
“Nope. No work today?”  
  
“No,” her mother responds, crossing her arms. “I told you I had the next couple of days off, barring any natural disasters or freak accidents.”  
  
“Where’s Dad?”  
  
It’s Abby’s turn to shift on her feet. Clarke’s face drops.  
  
“Dad called from work, he’s got some kind of meeting at the church afterward. He said he’d be back in time for dessert.”  
  
“Oh. Cool. I’ve, um… got a lot of homework, so…”  
  
Clarke should’ve known better than to believe she had gotten off so easily. She’s made it three steps up before her mother calls out to her again.  
  
“Clarke? Are you alright?”  
  
She turns, rests her hands on the white wooden bannister and feels her face shift into a wide smile.  
  
“Of course! Like I said, _lots_ of homework. Better just to jump right into it.”  
  
Abby blinks, silent, eyes narrowed and Clarke wonders if she makes other people as nervous as her mother is making her when she pulls the same expression.  
  
“And is that all?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Mom.”  
  
A beat.  
  
“It’ll be ready in an hour or so. I’ll call you when it’s done.”  
  
Clarke turns, bounding up the steps without another glance.  
  
Abby casts a sidelong glimpse at Clarke’s schoolbag – no doubt carrying her _very urgent homework_ – slumped on the floor, forgotten in her haste to get to her room.  
  
She’s barely made it to her bed when her phone begins to blare, Raven’s ringtone cutting through the relative silence just as her head hits her pillow. Clarke pulls it from her cardigan pocket with a groan, swiping to answer and holding it to her face without opening her eyes.  
  
_“You won’t believe where I am right now.”_  
  
Clarke snorts, crossing her ankles. “It’s kind of terrifying that I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve said those exact words to me before.”  
  
There’s a shuffling sound, like she’s covering her phone with her hand, before Raven speaks again.  
  
_“Okay, whatever. But this time, you_ seriously _won’t believe where I am.”  
  
_ “Try me.”  
  
_“At an auto parts store with Lexa Woods.”_  
  
Clarke sits up, eyes snapping open.  
  
“What? _Why_?”  
  
_“We were in the garage, working on her radiator hose – that’s what she came in for a couple of weeks ago, and I just haven’t had the time to properly fix it between the home opener and cheer, and Mr. Russell’s got me loaded down with all these_ stupid _oil changes. Like, who owns a car and doesn’t know how to change their own oil? I’ll tell you who, thoughtless – “_  
  
“Ray?”  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“I love you – _so much_ – and I promise, I care about _every_ word that comes out of your mouth… but _please, get to the point_.”  
_  
“Right. Sorry, Griff. Anyway, I heard this clicking when I fired her up to check on the rad hose, and when I lifted the timing belt to – you don’t care about this part, do you?”_  
  
“Raven.”  
  
_“Okay, okay! The garage didn’t have the part I needed, and it had to be replaced pretty badly so we decided to run down here to get it. And voila, now you’re all caught up.”  
  
_ Clarke chews the inside of her lip, itches underneath her knee-high sock, shifts uncomfortably.  
  
“That’s… nice.”  
  
_“_ Nice _? That’s it, that’s all you’ve got to say about the current situation?”_  
  
She sighs, leans her head back against her headboard.  
  
“I don’t _know_ , what else do you want me to say?”  
  
“ _I want you to say that it’s weird. Because it totally is, right? I mean, I haven’t hung around her this much since before Costia left –_ “  
  
“And for good reason,” Clarke bites.  
  
The line goes silent for a second, and Raven audibly sighs.  
  
_“Clarke…”_  
  
“Don’t, Ray. Just – _don’t_. Not right now.”  
  
More shuffling from the other end. “Are you okay, Griff?”  
  
Clarke balances her phone between her cheek and her shoulder so her hand can worry with her watch, the worn brown leather smooth underneath her finger tips.  
  
“Yeah, fine.”  
  
_“Okay,_ not _fine. What’s up, buttercup?”_  
  
Clarke gets up, walking toward the French double doors separating her room from the worn white wood of her balcony, looking out over her backyard. Dark blue paint chips off the sides of the gazebo out back.  
  
Words get caught in her throat, stifling themselves before they make it to her tongue. She thinks of the empty seat behind her in English today, and for the past three days. How it bothered her and she wishes it wouldn’t. She wants to ask Raven why it made her feel so unsettled. She wants to ask Raven why her eyes wouldn’t stop searching the courtyard every lunch hour. She wants to ask why the shiny black Mustang wasn’t in the parking lot this morning, this afternoon or even when she left at the end of the school day but it’s there _now_ and she wants to ask why that makes her so irritated.  
  
Clarke can just make out the scratched surface of a small chess table pushed to the side underneath the canopy of the gazebo.  
  
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it, I’m over it.”  
  
_“Are you sure?”_  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good.” She doesn’t mean to rush the conversation, but her fingers are itching to tap out a certain phone number and she has to call him, she _has_ to, _she has to_. He’ll know _exactly_ what to do. And she certainly doesn’t mean to sound so… _bitter_ when she says, “ _have fun_.”  
  
“ _Wait, what? Why do you sound so_ – “  
  
“ _Hey, Reyes? This is the one, isn’t it?”_  
  
The back of Clarke’s neck feels like it’s on fire. Her hand grasps the sheer fabric of her curtains, just to have something to hold on to.  
  
_“Let me see it… uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s it, what the_ hell _? I’ve been up and down this aisle like, five God damn times.”_  
  
_“That’s because it wasn’t in_ this _aisle, it was in the next one. Let’s get the fuck out of here – I hate to think of my girl being alone back there… open and exposed, all vulnerable and shit.”  
  
_ Clarke doesn’t realize she was holding her breath until she lets out a gust of air, her chest aching.  
  
_She sounds fine. That’s good._  
  
_… Wait, what?_

“ _Who’s that?”_  
  
“ _Uh… Clarke.”_  
  
She didn’t think it was possible to feel tension in the air through a phone. Clarke now knows it is entirely possible and – unbelievably - just as awkward as if it were in person.  
  
“I’m… going to go, Ray,” Clarke breathes, eyes still locked on the chess table. “I’ll text you later?”  
  
“ _Yeah, Griff, sounds good. Kisses, bitch._ ”  
  
She rolls her eyes, lets out another little snort. “Yeah, yeah, kisses to you too. Bye.”  
  
The call ends and she’s scrolling through her contacts in seconds, all the way to nearly the bottom. It starts ringing through and she brings her phone to her ear, worrying at her bottom lip again.  
  
“ _Hello_?”  
  
She breathes a sigh of relief at the sound of his voice.  
  
“Wells _.”  
  
  
  
  
_

* * *

_  
  
  
  
  
_ “ _Jesus, Clarke_ …”  
  
Clarke closes her eyes, tips her head back, places a hand on her forehead in a futile attempt to calm her cutting headache.  
  
“I know.”  
  
There’s static stillness for a moment as Wells bounces the new information around in his head, and she can hear the gentle plucking of piano faintly in the background.  
  
“I can’t believe you still listen to that stuff... you’re like an old man.”  
  
A scoff, a squeaking sound. Clarke can picture him sitting up in his brown leather desk chair, uncrossing his ankles and scrunching his brows.  
  
“ _It helps me_ focus _, thank you very much_.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“ _That’s not… I don’t_ – whatever, Clarke. _”_  
  
“Are you wearing a smoking jacket, too? Puffing on a pipe, maybe?”  
  
A pause. “… _Not a smoking jacket, a_ robe.”  
  
Wells lets her laugh for a moment, his clearly audible sigh frustrated yet resigned, before he interrupts.  
  
“ _I know just what to take your mind off all of this_.”  
  
“I find that entirely too hard to believe, but go for it.”  
  
And with one word, for just a moment, Clarke’s life is impossibly simple again.  
  
“ _Franny’s.”_  
  
Headache forgotten she shoots up, eyes wide and smile bright and thoughts completely focused on the old fashioned soda parlor with its homemade syrups and endless jars of Maraschino cherries.  
  
“Wells Jaha, you are a _genius_!”  
  
“ _That’s what all the doctors say.”_  
  
A snort, and then, “yeah, and you never let me forget it, either.”  
  
“ _Certainly not_.”  
  
Clarke bounces a little, the frame of her bed whining a bit. “When can we go, when can we go?”  
  
She can hear his smile through the line, she knows him well enough by now to hear it. It makes her grin even sillier.  
  
“ _I have debate tomorrow after class, and then a student council_ _meeting_ – “  
  
“A class president never takes a break?”  
  
“ _Not when his father is the principal._ ”  
  
“Touché. I know the feeling.”  
  
Wells lets out a sarcastic little laugh before continuing. “ _As long as you’re free Thursday after class, I can make the drive out and be there just before dinner time. Which means_ …”  
  
“Pizza at Jerome’s?”  
  
“ _Pizza at Jerome’s. Just like we used to.”_  
  
Clarke leans her back against her headboard, eyes locked on the corkboard across from her, just above her desk - where a polaroid of a little boy and girl covered in marinara and cheese, grinning from ear-to-ear is pinned.  
  
“That sounds… perfect.”  


 

 

* * *

 

  

 

The halls are nearly empty, a few lone stragglers slowly shuffling to class – quite the contrast to Clarke Griffin, blonde hair tucked neatly into a tidy ponytail, the pounding of her brown tassel loafers echoing through the barren walkway.  
  
She rounds the corner, makes a few quick strides and she’s in the classroom mere seconds before the bell sounds out. Mr. Kane turns, replacing the cap on his whiteboard marker and fixes her with a look that spells out clear disappointment.  
  
“Miss Griffin. Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?”  
  
Faint chuckles sound from her left, the class completely tuned in to even the most minute amount of drama. Clarke passes a quick glance over them – well, she _means_ to be quick, at least.  
  
Her gaze stops and settles for longer than she was anticipating because Lexa Woods is sitting in the seat beside her own empty one, slumped back in her chair with her arms crossed and her brow quirked. Clarke’s stomach turns – a deep, heavy feeling pooling in her gut. Really, she doesn’t think it ever goes away because it’s always the same damn thing whenever she sees her – it’s driven in now, roots growing deep and snarled and twisting and curling around her lungs and her heart and her throat.  
  
Lexa scans her, head to toe, and she doesn’t want to admit to herself that she’s doing the same. It’s been four days – not that she’s counting – since she last saw her. Lexa’s hair is loose, as always; smooth, wavy and rain-frizzed. Her blazer covers her arms, just the peek of a red polo shirt underneath. The ties of her black leather boots are loose. There are no tights under her plaid skirt. (Her knee is scuffed, a bruise blossomed just beside the slightly red scratch marks. Clarke forgets that she shouldn’t wonder what she did to get that.)  
  
The calculating cold that feels as if it slices across Clarke’s skin with every shift of the other girl’s gaze trails down her form, past their matching skirts and back up to meet her eyes.  
  
“Miss Griffin?”  
  
Clarke swallows, eyes back on Mr. Kane who gestures to her seat with an exaggerated flourish.  
  
“Take your seat, if you please? We have a class to commence.”  
  
Snickers follow her as she drags her feet along the floor, the residual rain from outside clinging to her shoes and making small screech sounds. The air between them feels static, charged when she finally settles into her desk, drops her bag to the ground at her feet and bends to rifle through it.  
  
“Alright, everyone! I have absolute faith that you all completed the assigned reading from last class?” Mr. Kane bellows, crossing his arms and leaning back against the front of his desk. The muffled groans of some of the students don’t go unnoticed and he claps, a grin on his face. “Great! Everyone pull out your copies, please, and open them to the third chapter.”  
  
Clarke pulls the novel from her bag, her copy crisp and clean, and places it on the surface in front of her, folded hands resting atop the cover. She can’t help but notice a worn copy of the same book being tossed on the desk to her left, pages bent and yellowed, edges of the cover curled in on itself.  
  
“What in God’s heavenly name is _that_ thing?”  
  
The words are out before she can stop them, and she almost thinks they’ve gone by unnoticed with how quiet she was.  
  
“A _book_?”  
  
Clarke sighs.  
  
_Not so lucky, then.  
  
_ “I can see that. Did the library run out of new copies or something? That is horrendously old.”  
  
Lexa picks up the novel, running through the pages absently with her thumb. “It’s not from the library. It’s my copy, from home.”  
  
A shelf comes to mind, books old and new piled atop each other, some neatly placed and some stacked on their sides. She can feel the rough edges of a leather-bound spine against her fingertips like a distant memory – the ghost of something she might have done some time ago. It plucks at her reminiscence uncomfortably, and she shakes the thought away.  
  
“You’ve read _‘The Scarlet Letter’_ before?” Clarke says after a moment, the words spilling out of her mouth. Lexa nods, looking forward. She purses her lips, trying to stop them from flowing out to no avail. “How many times?”  
  
Lexa sighs, seemingly already done with this conversation before it’s begun.  
  
“I don’t know. Lost count.”  
  
Clarke feels her nostrils flare – she didn’t have to start this tête-à-tête but she _has_ , and for all intents and purposes it’s been completely civil. So, _why_ is she acting like she’s bothering her just by breathing the same air?  
  
She opens her mouth to say something – what, Clarke’s not really sure – when Mr. Kane speaks again.  
  
“So, chapter three – we have the public… _shaming_ of Hester Prynne, for lack of a better term. She’s made to stand on a scaffold for three hours, and this is when that iconic ‘A’ is fastened to her clothing. This particular section is very heavy with allegory, right from the start – would anyone like to start with an example of symbolism they encountered while reading?” Mr. Kane begins, turning to write on the board in bright red marker, his printing clear and bold.  
  
**‘THE SCARLET LETTER: SYMBOLISM AND SIN’**  


Clarke swallows.  
  
The class is silent for a moment, the sounds of pages being reluctantly turned and nervous feet shuffling the only audible noise until a throat is cleared and Lexa’s strong voice carries through the air.  
  
“I’ve always found Dimmesdale’s speech to Hester about naming the father of her illegitimate child really… um, powerful.”  
  
Kane smiles, nodding and turning to write on the board again. The marker squeaks as he transcribes.  
  
“And what was it about Dimmesdale’s speech that impacted you, Miss Woods?”  
  
Lexa shifts in her seat, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.  
  
“Well, especially because _he's_ the father of her baby... he’s basically begging her to publicly damn him. He’s asking her, without really asking her, to… _expose_ him for who he truly is. Because he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself. And he’s doing it not only because he _wants_ to repent for his sins, but also because he can’t bear to see her endure all of this shame by herself.”  
  
Clarke is brazenly watching now, she recognizes; she’s observing the way Lexa’s eyes widen when she finds the precise words to say; the way her lips wrap around the arguments with accuracy and exactness, phrasing coming almost easily to her. Like she’s thought about this before, more than once. Like it’s a fact, and she’s just laying it out.  
  
“Interesting,” Kane says, eyes narrowed in thought. “And why do you think he ‘can’t bear’, as you put it, to see her being shamed alone? Do you suppose Dimmesdale truly loves Hester, or was he just looking for absolution from his sins?”  
  
“Are we talking about in general, in the whole novel? Or at this point in the story?” Lexa says, leaning forward a bit, her forearms on the top of the desk. The corner of her mouth quirks up. “I don’t think anyone else has read quite as far ahead as I have, sir. I wouldn’t want to spoil anything for anyone.”  
  
“Dimmesdale doesn’t love Hester.”  
  
The words tumble from between her lips, an avalanche that she couldn’t halt if she tried.  
  
Lexa turns, eyes fixed on the side of Clarke’s face whilst her own are on Mr. Kane. The man frowns a bit before speaking.  
  
“And why do you think that, Clarke?”  
  
She swallows once, hard, before she speaks – her eyes focused on her hands, fingers fidgeting with the edges of the book pages.  
  
“He’s just looking for a way to cleanse himself of his sins. He can never be forgiven if he doesn’t publicly admit to his… his _immoralities_ , but he’s too weak to. It’s a catch 22.”  
  
“You’re not wrong there, Miss Griffin, but that doesn’t explain why you think he doesn’t love Hester.”  
  
“Well, it’s _exactly_ what I just said. All he wants is to admit what he’s done but he can’t. _Hester can_ , however. He wants her to forgive him of his evils for him. He’s selfish.”  
  
Lexa scoffs, leaning back in her seat. Clarke looks at her, and she’s all gaping mouth and furrowed eyebrows.  
  
“You can’t be _serious_. Clearly, you haven’t read through the novel all the way because if you had you’d see you’re _totally_ incorrect. Even in this chapter – hell, in this one _paragraph_ – it proves you’re wrong,” she bites. “Dimmesdale wants her to admit who the father of her child is because he wants absolution, yes – but _also_ so she won’t have to bear it alone, and he can share her punishments. He wants her to forget whatever feelings she might have for him – ”  
  
“While condemning and admonishing her in front of _everyone_!”  
  
“And ‘ _condemning and admonishing’_ _himself_ in the process.”  
  
“God, you’re _so_ wide off the mark,” Clarke laughs, sarcastic and without humor. “Hester Prynne is only protecting herself, and Dimmesdale can’t stand it.”  
  
Lexa’s eyes narrow, her jaw clenching. She whirls, leaning forward across the aisle. Clarke straightens, lifting her chin as the girl comes closer.  
  
“Then that makes Hester Prynne a frigid _bitch_ who only cares about herself.”  
  
The class erupts, laughing and whistling. Kane claps his hands. Clarke jumps, but holds their stare.  
  
“ _Alright, ladies_! I’m going to ignore that last part for the sake of my sanity. Let’s give someone else a chance to weigh in, eh?”  
  
Lexa turns, eyes back to the front of the room, and she doesn’t spare Clarke a single glance as the rest of class goes by.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“What is this, Griff?”  
  
Clarke shuts her door behind her with a foot, three cans of Coke and a bowl of popcorn balanced in her hands as she looks questioningly at Octavia sprawled on her bed.  
  
“What’s what, O?”  
  
Octavia lays on her back, head at the foot of Clarke’s bed hanging off the edge, hair flowing down toward the floor. She pulls at a string of red licorice, chewing around her words.  
  
“The music. ‘S good – a little weird, but I’m into it.”  
  
“I concur,” Bellamy adds from the alcove around one of Clarke’s windows, long legs stretched in front of him on the cozy bench seat, notebook resting in his lap as he quickly jots notes. “I dig it.”  
  
“’ _Concur_ ’, ‘ _dig_ ’? You sound like you’re fifty, Bell,” Octavia snorts, getting up to help Clarke with the snacks.  
  
“Consider this – I _am_ ,” he says, looking at the two girls over the rim of his round-frame tortoise shell glasses.  
  
“I honestly wouldn’t be surprised,” Clarke sighs, sitting in her desk chair.  
  
Octavia plops down onto the bed again and tilts her chin to the stereo atop Clarke’s bedside table. “So?”  
  
“Oh, it’s um… just this CD someone gave me.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Who what?”  
  
“ _Who_ gave you the CD?”  
  
“No one.”  
  
“But… you just said – “  
  
“No one important, I meant.”  
  
“ _What_? What do you mean – “  
  
“I did. I gave it to her,” Bellamy interrupts, looking up from his textbook briefly and meeting Clarke’s eyes. “I totally forgot – sorry, O. No wonder I liked it – I have pretty kick-ass taste in tunes.”  
  
Octavia looks between them for a long second – _too long_. Clarke turns, rifling around on her desk and looking for nothing in particular; Bellamy stares hard at his books, a perplexed expression on his face. He scratches his head in an overly-exaggerated show of confusion and it physically pains Clarke to watch him.  
  
_We can definitely check ‘acting’ off the list of things Bellamy Blake can do._

“ _Okay_ … whatever. I’ve got to pee. Don’t eat all the popcorn while I’m gone.”  
  
Octavia shuts the door behind her and it takes Clarke no time at all to turn on Bellamy, eyes wide and disbelieving.  
  
“I actually can’t even grasp how terrible of a liar you are,” she gapes.  
  
“Okay, _woah_ \- how about a ‘ _thanks, Bell! You totally saved me from a potentially horrifically awkward situation, I owe you_!’ Huh?”  
  
Clarke opens her can of Coke, if only to prevent herself from hurtling the can straight at Bellamy’s stupid, stupid head.  
  
“How about ‘ _thank you for_ creating _a potentially awkward situation’_? You should be thankful Octavia’s bladder prevented her from doing any deeper digging.”  
  
“What kind of unjust world do we live in where my little sister’s bladder gets more recognition for a job well done than I – an actual, _complete_ human – do?”  
  
Clarke sighs, blowing a loose lock of hair from her eyes and glaring half-heartedly at him.  
  
“Thanks, Bell. Really.”  
  
“You know, one of these days you’re going to _actually_ explain to me why I have to keep saving your ass.”  
  
All Clarke has time to do is smile back at him in return before Octavia comes bounding through the door again.  
  
She briefly wonders just how many times you can play a CD before it wears out. She thinks she might be close to it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Franny’s is, typically, bustling with people on Thursday night.  
  
Wells holds the door open for Clarke as she walks through, bell jingling announcing their presence. Old music plays, something that makes him tap his feet as they move to the ordering line.  
  
“I remember this song!” Clarke smiles. “Your dad used to have their album on vinyl, he’d play it all the time.”  
  
“You _still_ remember that?” Wells replies, his eyes shining. “That feels like forever ago. It’s definitely been forever since we’ve been here.”  
  
Clarke looks away, grin still firmly in place. “Maybe since _you’ve_ been here…”  
  
Wells gapes, putting a hand to his chest in faux-disbelief. “ _Clarke Griffin!_ I can’t believe it… you came to Franny’s without me?”  
  
“Every once in a while, I have a craving for an egg cream and this is the only place in Washington that does them,” she defends, hands held in front of her. “ _And_ it’s only a ten-minute drive, compared to your nearly hour-long journey.”  
  
“I can’t believe this,” he sniffs, pretending to dab away a tear.  
  
“Is there any way I can make it up to you?” Clarke presses, pursing her lips together to keep from laughing.  
  
Wells pretends to think for a moment, not-so-stealthily perusing the chalk menu board.  
  
“I think maybe a vanilla malt would suffice… _and_ a strawberry soda.”  
  
“I think I can do that.”  
  
“If you pay, that makes this a date.”  
  
The acerbic look Clarke settles on him breaks his composure and he laughs, fully and loudly, and her chest feels so _light_ in that moment.  
  
Clarke looks around as ‘Hound Dog’ by Elvis sounds out, the space so familiar to her even after all these years. The front counter is exactly as she remembers it, mint green and detailed in chrome, curving around the soda jerks with their paper hats and aprons. They quickly and skilfully prepare drinks and sundaes with flair as children sit on shiny red swivel stools that line the counter and watch in awe. Booths mark either wall, raised a step from the floors, and small tables and chairs are set around. It’s still the same black-and-white checkered floor, the walls a warm vanilla cream color, and she wouldn’t be surprised if the space beside the jukebox still had a dent from Wells and his roller-skates so many years before.  
  
They order and pay for their drinks – Wells gets a vanilla malt and Clarke gets a float made with chocolate soda. (Wells pays for both – “it’s _still_ not a date” – but Clarke sneaks away when he’s in the bathroom and buys him a strawberry fountain soda. She pretends she doesn’t know where it came from when he comes back.)  
  
They’re in the middle of debating the merits of a malt over a regular milkshake when the bell jingles. Clarke’s back is to the door, and she doesn’t realize who’s walked in until it’s much too late.  
  
Lexa walks up to the counter, the rubber bottoms of her Converse tapping on those checkered floors, black jeans and leather jacket and all that hair. She looks at the menu and her face turns to the right and she’s smiling, wide and unabridged and so kind. And it takes her _much_ too long to realize that she’s not alone.  
  
There’s a girl, her arm linked with Lexa’s, playing with the loose strap at the end of the leather jacket sleeve with one hand while the other points to something on the chalk board. There’s a girl, and she doesn’t recognize her, and she can’t fully see her face but what she can see is _pretty_ ; brown hair with golden highlights pulled back into a loose ponytail, pieces fallen out and framing her delicate features; long eyelashes that almost brush the top of her cheeks when she blinks.  
  
There’s a girl, a gorgeous girl, leaning her head on Lexa’s shoulder as they order and Lexa pays and doesn’t that make it a date?  
  
The girl hops up on one of the stools as they wait, and it’s _so casual_ when Lexa stands between her knees.  
  
A warmth rolls in Clarke’s chest, scorching and livid, spitting and gurgling and churning endless waves of something that feels unfathomably _awful_.  
  
_“Clarke?”_ Wells calls, waving a hand in front of her face.  
  
Lexa’s head snaps up and their gazes are dense and substantial when eyes meet.  
  
Clarke is certain she doesn’t imagine the way Lexa’s eyes widen when her mouth forms the words, “ _damn it_.”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Did she ever say she liked Maraschino cherries?  
  
If she did, Clarke takes it back. She hates them. She absolutely despises them.  
  
Especially when they’re caught in between two rows of shining, pearly white teeth, whipped cream being slowly licked off before disappearing past strawberry pink, cold-flushed lips.  
  
Clarke watches Lexa’s jaw work as she chews, head resting on her closed fist while her elbow sits on the booth table. The girl’s throat constricts and she follows the movement…  
  
It’s been years since she’s ground her teeth – she doesn’t think she could ever forget the painful year she had to wear her retainer almost 24/7 in retaliation – but the habit seems to be starting anew.  
  
The brunette opposite Lexa leans forward, dips her spoon into their shared sundae – _shared sundae, for God’s sake!_ – and brings it to her mouth, hesitating before wrapping her lips around the bite and sliding it off. She leans forward, rubbing the tips of their noses together.  
  
_Really? God,_ please _be more of a cliché…_  
  
The corner of Lexa’s grin curls upward even further, her eyes narrowing, and she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth as she _twirls, twirls, twirls_ a cherry stem around the tip of her index finger.  
  
“I hate to interrupt this little one-sided staring contest,” Wells meekly begins. “But you’re being a little obvious, Clarke.”  
  
“Good!” she squeaks, and her voice is strained and tight and words don’t seem to be coming too easily. “I’m glad. Maybe they’ll eventually _feel_ me staring and stop. I’m sure I’m not the only one who is – no one wants to see _that_. It’s – I’m, it’s… _it’s obscene_.”  
  
Her wide eyes shift to Wells, and it looks like he’s wincing.  
  
“Uh – sorry to tell you this, Griff, but… you actually kind of _are_ the only one.”  
  
Clarke looks away (she can still see Lexa throw her head back, laughing so hard it’s nearly silent) and makes a quick scan of the other customers.  
  
“Oh, _crap_ …”  
  
Wells raises his brows in question.  
  
Clarke crosses her arms, sits back in her seat and tries really hard to keep her bottom lip from jutting out… it does anyway.  
  
“I _hate_ it when you’re right.”  
  
The boys answering laugh is boisterous enough that it makes her lips quirk, though her lower lip still stubbornly sticks out. She tries to hide it by leaning forward and taking a long sip from her red-and-white striped paper straw, her eyes veering back to the right of their own accord.  
  
Lexa meets her eyes, and her brows go quickly from intensely furrowed to arched and dangerous within seconds. She’s alone in the booth.  
  
“I’m going to go and say hi.”  
  
“What? Clarke, I don’t really think – “  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ll just be a moment.”  
  
She’s pushed up from the table and turned, striding to the booth before Wells can even hope to stop her. Her loafers make fast, consistent ‘tap’ sounds in time with her steps. Lexa studies her as she walks, and she smooths her shirt with two flattened palms.  
  
“Hello, Lexa.”  
  
“Hello, Clarke.”  
  
She loosely links her fingers together, entwined hands settling in front of her, back rigid and eyes clear and focused. Lexa’s smirk is crooked as she sets the tip of her spoon on the table top, twirling it absentmindedly.  
  
“Are you enjoying your evening?” Clarke chirps.  
  
Her lips curve further. “I am. And you?”  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
There’s a short pause and Lexa’s eyes don’t stray from Clarke’s. The back of her neck feels itchy and when did they turn up the thermostat? She’ll have to go to the counter and ask Franny to turn it down, it’s much too warm.  
  
“Is there anything I can do for you, Clarke?”  
  
Her tone is suspect. It makes Clarke shift her weight as she blinks quickly, swallowing severely.  
  
“Yes, actually. My friend and I would appreciate it if you and your… um, _companion_ would keep the public displays of affection to a minimum. It’s making us _and_ the other customers uncomfortable.”  
  
Lexa’s brow arches as she sits back a bit, eyes shifting to the side for a moment. Her lips part and a laugh escapes, incredulous and almost more of a scoff. It is, unsurprisingly, completely devoid of mirth.  
  
“I don’t think your friend feels uncomfortable at all. Not with the way he’s shooting me those apologetic looks, at least.”  
  
Clarke whirls, and Wells is a bit too slow to change his expression. She gapes – how interesting indeed that _‘thanks a lot’_ can sometimes look almost exactly like _‘screw you’_ when you’re silently mouthing it to someone.  
  
“… And I don’t think anyone else is, either. Not with the way that older lady behind the counter keeps shooting Cam and I smiles. I think she might have even winked once. I can’t be sure, though.” _  
  
Wait, _ Cam _? Who the hell -  
  
_ “Franny does that to everyone. She’s very friendly.”  
  
“ _Right_. So, all of this begs the question… why are you the only one in this entire establishment who seems to be so ‘ _uncomfortable_?’” she retorts, scooping a bite of her sundae onto her spoon. She flips it and slowly takes the sweet treat into her mouth, the back of the utensil to the roof of her mouth.  
  
Lexa pulls out the spoon, licks her lips.  
  
Clarke remembers the first time she went fishing with her father. They had sat on the edge of a dock, rolled up their overalls, dipped their toes in the water and sat until they had caught something. Her father had gallantly reeled it in and when he laid it out on the old wooden slats it opened and closed its mouth, eyes wide and almost alarmed.  
  
Clarke is sure in that moment she looks just like that fish.  
  
“Lexie?”  
  
The voice is soft, uncertain and when she turns she’s surprised to find that she has to look down a bit to meet the girl’s eyes.  
  
“Cammie, this is a school-mate of mine, Clarke… Clarke, this is Camden.” And her smile is gentle and genuine.  
  
“It’s nice to meet you… _Camden_ ,” Clarke says, arms crossing against her chest – less aggressive, more protective. “How do you and Lexa know each other?”  
  
Camden comes closer, brushing past Clarke to place her hand on Lexa’s shoulder, smile bright.  
  
“We went to school together back in Polis, before Lexie moved out here…” – _Lexie?_ – “Our football team is in town for the game tomorrow. Wherever the team goes, the cheer squad follows so… here I am!”  
  
Clarke’s ears perk up at this, and Lexa looks cautiously at her.  
  
“I know all about that game… I’m captain of the cheer squad at Arkadia.”  
  
Camden’s smile falters, but she recovers quickly as Lexa looks between the two girls, brows quirked inquisitively as she shifts back and forth between them.  
  
“Oh, how… how coincidental.”  
  
“Quite.”  
  
There’s a long moment where the sounds of music and laughter are muted and Clarke feels like she’s in some kind of ‘ _Bring It On’_ -meets-‘ _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly_ ’ style stand-off.  
  
Lexa slides out of the booth, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear and shoving a hand into her pocket, producing her keys. She twirls them as she subtly pulls at Camden’s elbow, nodding to the door.  
  
“We should get going, Cam,” she says, clearing her throat.  
  
Camden nods, sparing an uncertain smile as she walks past first and Clarke steps aside to let her through. Lexa hesitates. Their eyes meet, and there’s something her eyes are trying to say but it’s spoken in another language that Clarke can’t yet understand.  
  
Her voice is so quiet, hushed and for her ears only.  
  
“ _See you around, Princess_.”  
  
Their hands brush when she walks by, and she tries not to startle at how smooth Lexa’s skin is – porcelain, silk and velvet; hazardously petal-soft.  
  
The bell over the door jingles. Clarke doesn’t turn to watch them leave.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“Clarke, focus please? Turn to first John 2:7-11 and read it out for me.”  
  
Her fingers deftly flip through the pages, muscle memory at this point, and she finds the verse easily – it’s highlighted, circled and underlined. She reads aloud:  
  
“ _I am not writing a new commandment, for it is an old one you have always had – to love one another.”  
  
_ Her father looks at her over the rim of his thin-framed glasses, eyes warm and crinkled at the edges as he smiles at her.  
  
“Good, good. Now what do you think; does the Old Testament really matter in this day and age?”  
  
“Yes, it does.”  
  
“And why is that?”  
  
“Because it contains the Ten Commandments.”  
  
“Exactly!”  
  
Clarke tries to stifle her yawn, she really does – but her father notices, and his lips press into a thin line.  
  
“I’m sorry, Clarke – is devotional boring you tonight?”  
  
Her mother comes back to the table, placing a cup of tea in front of herself before settling down beside Jake.  
  
“No, Dad.”  
  
“So, how come you’re _yawnin_ ’, kiddo?”  
  
Clarke sighs, balancing her chin in her palm. “Long day.”  
  
Jake sits forward in his chair, folding his hands and resting them atop the table.  
  
“Well, I have to say, I’m a little disappointed… not that I don’t love seeing Wells, but you know what your priorities are. I’ll let it go this time, you haven’t seen him in so long. But – “  
  
“ _God first, above all else_. I know, Dad. I’m sorry.”  
  
Jake breathes out through his nose before continuing. “You can take this upstairs with you. I’d like you to write me a sentence for each of the Ten Commandments, telling me respectively what they mean to you.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Abby meets her eyes and fixes her with a look that spells out sympathy.  
  
“Goodnight, sweetie.”  
  
“Night, Mom. Goodnight, Dad.”  
  
Later that night, as Clarke puts her pencil on her desk and flexes her aching fingers, she wonders not for the first time what it would be like to have a father that _isn’t_ simultaneously your dad _and_ the principal of your school.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
_October, sophomore year…_  
  
  
  
_“Lexa?”  
  
“Yeah, Clarke?”  
  
“Do you love her?”  
  
“… What?”  
  
“Costia. Do – do you love her?”  
  
Lexa continues mixing, the unmistakable smell of pumpkin and spice emanating from the bowl and permeating the room.  
  
“Yeah, I… um, I think I do.”  
  
“You _ think _you do, or you_ know _you do?”  
  
“Why are you asking me this, Clarke?”  
  
Clarke swings her legs from her perch atop the kitchen counter, shrugs, tries to dip her finger into the bowl and scoop out some of the filling. Lexa bats her hand away, the corner of her lip twitching.  
  
“How do you know you love someone? We’re still so young. How do you even know what it feels like?”  
  
The brunette shrugs, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear and resuming her mixing.  
  
“Shit, I don’t know… -“  
  
“Don’t say that word!”  
  
“Shit, sorry Cla –“  
  
“Lexa!”  
  
“Damn it, sorry. Wait, is ‘damn’ okay?”  
  
“’Dunno. I think so.”  
  
“Oh. Ok.”  
  
There’s a long moment where they don’t speak, they just listen to the sounds of Raven, Octavia and Costia cutting through pumpkins on the back porch. Lexa looks up out of the kitchen window above the sink just in time to see Costia picking a stringy, gloopy clump of pumpkin innards and seeds out of Raven’s ponytail.  
  
“Love is a feeling, Clarke. You’ll know it, when the time comes. You’ll just know it.”  
  
Clarke looks at the girl beside her, studies the side of her face, the gentle slope of her nose and her long eyelashes casting delicate shadows on the tops of her cheeks.  
  
(Later that night, when they settle in to start their horror movie marathon and she watches as Costia curls up against Lexa’s side, Clarke thinks she understands.)  
_  


   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it took a while but finally! Please feel free to follow me over on my Tumblr at astrangecupoftea.tumblr.com if you'd like - I'm always posting aesthetics and moodboards for LMR, as well as answering questions and posting updates on chapter progress. :)
> 
> I keep saying this, and I hope it doesn't come across as insincere because I am still so astounded by all the lovely comments and messages I receive here and on my blog from all of you. I'm so overjoyed you're all enjoying where I'm taking this so far. That being said, I introduced an original character and that might have been a gigantic mistake to some people - but I wanted to take a moment here to say that this is a Clexa fanfiction. It will always be a Clexa fanfiction, no matter what happens, and although I low-key love Camden she won't be sticking around too long. She's merely here to mix things up a bit... or a lot. My lips are sealed, though.
> 
> Until next time. xx


	7. and when your fingers find her, she drowns you in her body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a little bit of a mature theme here. A smidgen of violence, and some offensive language.

  
  
  
  
  
_There’s an eerie chill in the air, dark and ominous and uncomfortable. The sky churns, navy mixed with clouds the color of ash. The wind cuts her cheek._  
  
_Blood drips to the pavement. Lexa watches it fall, steady at first but now it slows. It stains, running over the ‘a’ in the word ‘Warriors’ emblazoned to the front of the cheer uniform, the streak drying to a murky reddened brown._  
  
_The expanse of the parking lot is sickening. Lexa wishes she could will its distance to close up… maybe swallow her whole in the process._  
  
_God, she never wanted this._  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
The back of her neck is still hot from the aftermath of a confrontation when she bursts through the school doors, feet moving without instruction to the parking lot. Lexa didn’t even think it was _possible_ to become so heated over the damn novel – hell, over _any_ novel for that matter.  
  
(It was not about anything other than the book. She refused to believe she could become this worked up over… _her_.)  
  
Her mind is rushing, re-wording and working up countless other retorts and explanations to fire back, and she’s so distracted she nearly misses the figure leaning against the side of her Mustang.  
  
“Don’t _frown_ so much, Lexie. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”  
  
Her boots nearly skid on the pavement, she stops so suddenly, because Camden Blake is there wearing a shit eating grin and looking a little bit like hazy summers in Polis – drunken nights spent together with minimal clothing when all Lexa’s heart did was hurt and all she ached to do was mend it.  
  
She takes her time, slowly closing the distance between them with a barely-concealed smirk. Cammie keeps still, tracking her with wide hazel eyes as Lexa’s trace the length of the girl. It’s been two summers since she last saw it, but Lexa’s sure she could still point out the wishbone-shaped birthmark on her left side, just over her ribs.  
  
It’s when she’s barely a step away that Cammie breaks, launching herself forward, her legs wrapping quickly around Lexa’s waist with almost too much ease. A sharp kick of something cold and horrid shoots up her spine and she nearly drops the girl before shaking it away.  
  
“What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Cam?” Lexa breathes, steadying the girl as her feet touch the ground once more.  
  
“The Titans are here to kick some Arkadia ass this Friday night,” Cammie starts, smugly pointing to her sweatshirt, ‘Polis High Titans’ proudly stitched to the front. “But I wanted to come out a little early. You know, scope out the competition.”  
  
Lexa raises her brows, sarcastically nodding along. “ _So,_ Polis employs spies now?”  
  
Cammie wags her eyebrows, tilting her head forward conspiratorially.  
  
“Oh, my dear Alexandria… they _always_ have.”  
  
Lexa rolls her eyes, smirk pulling into a full-blown smile.  
  
“How did you get here?”  
  
“The team and the rest of the cheer squad is staying at a hotel a few minutes from here.”  
  
“ _The rest_ of the cheer squad? Where are you staying, then?”  
  
The other girl purses her lips in a futile attempt to hide her own smile, turns and walks around the front of the car. Her fingertip trails along the hood, catching the faint droplets of water still clinging to the surface.  
  
“See, that’s where I thought I could use your help,” Cammie says, her voice almost a purr as her wide, doe eyes glance up.  
  
There’s this really strange feeling churning in Lexa’s gut, a familiar heat that rises and makes her heart beat just a bit quicker – but it’s almost immediately extinguished by a heavy, overwhelming surge of something that feels a _whole fucking lot_ like guilt.  
  
Fear stops her from questioning the source any further.  
  
She pulls her keys out from her blazer pocket, unlocks her car and watches Cammie climb in to the passenger seat with bizarre unease still clinging to her.  
  
The school bell rings behind them as they screech out of the parking lot, and her eyes definitely do not stray for a single second on the dark blue Jeep parked at the edge of the lot.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
The house is quiet by the time they get back, the faint creaking of the front door and her and Cammie’s footsteps echoing in the large foyer the only things audible.  
  
“Hello? Is anyone here?” Lexa calls, shifting Cammie’s duffel bag on her shoulder. “ _Anya_?”  
  
“I guess not _everything_ changes, huh?” Cammie says softly, grabbing the bag from Lexa and settling it to the ground, replacing the strap with her hand.  
  
She almost shrugs the girl off, denial poised on Lexa’s tongue and a defensive retort ready to spew from between her lips before she realizes that it’s unwarranted; for the first time in a while, she’s with someone who knew her before Arkadia – strangely enough, someone she doesn’t have to lie to.  
  
“I guess not,” she sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Would you like a tour? You haven’t met this house yet.”  
  
Cammie snorts, rolls her eyes. “I’d love one”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
“… And here we have the kitchen, where I usually make waffles and Anya eats them all before I get the chance to take a bite.”  
  
“’Eggos’ or freshly made?”  
  
“What? Home-made, obviously. Who do you think I _am_?”  
  
Cammie throws her head back, a loud laugh echoing around the kitchen as she turns and settles her back against the island.  
  
“Sorry, I forgot – Lexa Woods, elusive bad-ass and brooder extraordinaire… is also an _excellent_ cook.”  
  
Lexa pulls a faux-wince, mirroring Cammie’s position on the counter opposite the girl. “Cooking in general, not as much – I excel at anything sweet, but other than that…”  
  
The silence lulls in the air, and there’s an extended moment where Lexa knows, with absolute certainty, just what Cammie is going to do next. It hangs heavily in the space between them, and where the impending feeling would normally heat Lexa’s flesh and make her stomach bubble in excitement, a cold flash of dread replaces it. It’s such an odd fucking feeling, and she finds herself having to continually push it down, even as Cammie thrusts off the counter and begins to walk toward her.  
  
It worsens with every step, and by the time the girl is just a breath away from being flush to Lexa’s chest, the feeling is built up in her chest and she feels as if it’s a physical entity clawing up her throat.  
  
“Lexa?”  
  
Her chest burns – from holding her breath, she realizes. She inhales sharply through her nose.  
  
Cammie’s breath brushes over her face as she asks, “Lexie, are you alright?”  
  
She isn’t stupid. There is an undeniably attractive girl – almost sickeningly sweet and unbelievably nice – who is wantonly looking at her with wide eyes and purposely tugging on the edge of Lexa’s shirt, and _for fuck’s sake_ all she wants is to give in. All Lexa wants is to rush as fast as she can to her bedroom and forget about everything, to get lost for hours like she did on those muddled summer nights.  
  
So why does she feel such an overwhelming rush of relief when keys jingle and Anya’s voice reaches them from the front door?  
  
“ _Lexa_? _Are you here_?”  
  
There’s just enough time for her to snake past Cammie and put a hefty amount of space between them before Anya strides through the open archway, her eyes widening and her mouth breaking into a wide, bright smile.  
  
“Holy _shit_ … do my eyes deceive me, or is little Miss Camden Blake standing in my kitchen?”  
  
All sounds become a mid-range drone as she silently exits the room. Leaving the two girls behind, she makes her way quickly back through the front door. It feels like someone’s placed their hands over her ears and tiny sparks of green flood the edges of her vision. Her hands pat up and down her torso for a moment before she finally grasps her pack of smokes.  
  
There’s one lit and between her lips in moments, and after a few sharp pulls from the cigarette and long breaths of fresh, damp air she feels like she’s back to some unbalanced semblance of normalcy.  
  
“Lex?”  
  
Anya shuts the door behind her quietly, not moving any closer, giving Lexa a wide berth. She wishes she could tell her sister how much she appreciates her in moments like these, where she’s delicate but not babying, where she can sense exactly what Lexa needs before she knows she needed it.  
  
“I’m fine.” The response is quick, immediate.  
  
“You sure?”  
  
Lexa taps the end of her cigarette, watching the ashes float to the ground while taking a breath in through her nose.  
  
“Yes… sorry.”  
  
Anya clears her throat and lets Lexa take a few more pulls before speaking again.  
  
“Don’t be. Cammie explained everything. I showed her to a guest room. I thought, um… it might be better that way.”  
  
Lexa scoffs, tucks an unruly strand of hair behind her ear and nods. “You’re right, it is… thanks.”  
  
The only response is Anya slowly shutting the door behind her as she tucks inside the doorway once more, leaving Lexa on the front porch.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
She should have fucking known.

By now it should be obvious, a given. It’s so nearly routine, it seems almost ridiculous.

Any time Lexa forgets about Clarke Griffin, she’s right around the God damn corner with a false smile and a sharp remark, thrusting herself back into Lexa’s life like a fucking freight train.

Lexa has been trying not to watch Clarke for the better part of an hour, but the girl isn’t making it very easy. Honestly, it almost seems like the exact opposite. She’s with some boy that looks as if he were plucked straight from an ‘ _Abercrombie & Fitch_’ advert, all straight white teeth and tan skin, soft eyes and smiles – all for Clarke, who looks to be completely in her element. Each time her eyes stray to the pair, there’s intense flirting going on – he’ll scoop some whipped cream from her drink, she’ll take a sip from his and push his arm, throwing her head back and exposing her long, pale neck to the whole damn world.

It’s all very quaint, very _normal_.

It’s making Lexa nauseous.

And for her part, Cammie is an absolute dream – she’s funny and sweet and silly, rubbing their noses together and telling stories about their mishaps and adventures in Polis. It makes Lexa wonder why she ever lost touch with her, when she knew her so well once upon a time – so well, in fact, that Lexa’s finding it nigh on impossible to keep her eyes from straying down her body. She’s only human, after all, and she honestly couldn’t count the number of times she’s traced every inch of Cammie’s body with her hungry eyes in the dim light of the other girl’s bedroom.

Cammie gets up to go to the bathroom, and her eyes are back on Clarke.

She’s wearing… well, not a school uniform, though she’s still in a skirt, even in this weather. Lexa’s t-shirt and jacket were usually adequate to stave off the mid-autumn chill of Washington but she was still finding herself shivering as they left her house earlier that evening. She can’t imagine Clarke would be any warmer, even with tights and a large, red wool jacket…

Though, why should she care? The bitch could freeze and Lexa wouldn’t blink an eye…

… But honestly, does she not know what the concept of _pants_ are?

And then Clarke’s eyes meet her own, and she is thoroughly and utterly caught. She’s fully prepared to brush it off and continue as if nothing had happened… only that seems precisely the opposite to what Clarke is doing.

She strides up to her with purposeful steps, her brown loafers making ‘ _tap_ ’ sounds on the black and white tile. Useless banter is exchanged whilst Lexa absentmindedly twirls a spoon on the counter to keep her hands busy.

Upon closer inspection Clarke is wearing makeup. A little bit of eyeliner, mascara, a slick of lip gloss. Her hair is styled a bit more than just a haphazard, messy bun; it’s decisively clipped back with curls framing her cheeks, the flaxen gold of her hair playing against the pale glow of her skin. She looks happy, despite the forced pleasantries, a little bit radiant perhaps.

She looks lovely.

A hard lump rises in Lexa’s throat, and she’s afraid it’s making her words sound choked as she responds. The conversation turns a little sour quite quickly, and she’s mercifully saved by Cammie.

The following conversation plays out almost surreally for Lexa.

Clarke and Cammie are introduced, and almost immediately it turns into a live-action replay of a scene from ‘ _Bring It On!_ ’

Lexa makes sure it’s over before it’s even begun, leaving their half-eaten sundae on the table behind them. Her thoughts are firmly focused on the door… and making it out of this damn shop alive because the looks being thrown between the two are positively fucking fatal.

But just for a moment, there’s something in Clarke’s eyes that has her faltering, slipping up – something genuine and soft breaks through, and Lexa almost regrets leaving because it feels like Haley’s fucking comet; rare and elusive, blink and you’ll miss it.

Her heart aches, strange and uncertain, in her chest. She reaches out before the infinitesimally small moment passes, brushing her hand against Clarke’s.

Turning, she quickly exits before the ice princess re-freezes.

   


* * *

 

 

It’s only a small joint, but split between two people and it’s less than five minutes before the tips of Lexa’s ears are numb and tingling, her head feeling weighted and lazy.

It’s a wonder she’s even able to hold herself up, but the stars are too phenomenal to pass by and Cammie had absolutely insisted they sit on the hood of Lexa’s Mustang.

Begrudgingly, she had to admit though… it was absolutely preferable to just sitting with the top down in the front seat. Her windshield is at a perfect angle to lay back, shoulders touching, and pass the joint between the two of them.

They talk about mindless things for a while, with Lexa pointing out this constellation and that star. Cammie calls her a ‘dork’ for knowing so much about astrology, and asks her if she still has the telescope Lexa’s dad bought her in eighth grade.

She does. It’s in her closet, prepared for a clear night like tonight, where she will take it to her window or the roof and sit and marvel at the universe.

It’s all very _poetic_ , really.

The joint runs down to the filter and begins to taste a little like burning cardboard, so she lets Cammie take the last puff and throw the discarded butt off to the side. Lexa turns her head, opening her mouth to spout off some possibly inane fact about Orion’s Belt when Cammie’s lips land directly on her own, easy and pliant and ready.

Cammie’s fingers tangle into Lexa’s hair, tugging at just the right spots to elicit the reaction she’s looking for from her… but it never comes. Lexa lets herself be kissed, resting an uncertain hand against Cammie’s slender hip and God damn it, Woods, _get it the fuck together._

The other girl lets out a small whine, pressing her chest against Lexa’s, warm and fragrant with some kind of cupcake, vanilla-scented shit that would usually make her mouth water and drive her absolutely wild – but it feels like her hands are disconnected from her body. She can’t grasp the situation, she can’t _respond_.

Behind her closed eyelids, plush pink lips curve into a smile, blue eyes dance with uncertainty and mirth. A full, forgiving body is being pressed wantonly against a bedroom door, and everything smells of sweet flora and clean skin.

Lexa breaks away, holding her hand against her lips like she’s been burned.

“Did I do something wrong? Are you okay?”

Cammie’s concern only serves to make Lexa feel like more of an absolute dirt bag. The other brunette’s chest heaves with her breathing, and she pushes back pieces of fallen hair from her face. Lexa sits up, running a hand roughly through her mane, probably pulling quite a few strands out with the force of it.

There’s a painfully long moment where Lexa tries to wrap her intoxicated brain around everything. Synapses won’t go off, nothing is making complete sense, but the one thing she knows without a fucking doubt is that her chest aches for someone. Completely, entirely, unequivocally aches for someone, and that person is _not_ sitting on the hood of her car with her, high as a kite.

Dread fills her throat and she gasps around it.

“Oh, Jesus – hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, Lexie, I’m _sorry_. You didn’t want to and I just… fucking – I jumped on you. I’m sorry!” Cammie blabbers, words running a mile a minute, and she reaches out to rub Lexa’s back. They’re both way too fucking high for this. Lexa couldn’t think of a worse time for her imprudent, rotten… _feelings_ to be coming up, bubbling to the forefront and poised to spew from her lips.

“Fuck, Cammie. It’s not you, it’s me. I swear to _God_ , it’s me.”

Cammie clears her throat, continuing to rub wide circles on her back. “Well, if that isn’t the oldest play in the book…”

Lexa tries to choke out a laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. Cammie squeezes her shoulder.

“That’s not what I meant. Everything… Christ, everything is just so _fucked_ _up_ , isn’t it?”

Cammie purses her lips and nods. “Alright then, Woods. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

And she does. Every sordid detail, every thought and feeling, every doubt. It all comes out in a big pile of words that Lexa can’t find a beginning or an end to.

And at the last of it all, when the tears have been wiped away, all Cammie can do is pull her to her chest and say absolutely nothing.

It’s all Lexa could have hoped for.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s nearly the end of the second quarter, and Arkadia and Polis are close. Arkadia is ahead by just a few points, though any lead is a good lead at this point in the game. Both teams have been fighting harder than Lexa has seen them thus far, spurred on by their unbridled hate for the other.

Polis and Arkadia had both started slow, plays being less aggressive than expected. And then something changed. Arkadia charged ahead, sneaky moves and tricky plays earning them the first touchdown and field goal. Polis had a jerky recovery before surging ahead to meet Arkadia, and then both teams remained neck-in-neck.

The announcers bellow out information about the half-time proceedings just before the buzzer rings. The teams jog off the field, and are very quickly replaced by Polis High’s cheerleading squad.

Cammie finds Lexa in the crowd and throws her a bright smile and a huge wave, which she returns with a grin equal in brilliance. Anya’s elbow digs sharply into her ribs.

“Ouch! What the hell was that?”

Anya makes a ‘ _tsk_ ’ sound and rolls her eyes. “No, what the hell was _that_? Are things, you know… _back on_ between you and Cammie again?”

Lexa crosses her arms, her eyes back to the field. Upbeat, techno-pop bullshit blares from the speakers as the squad begins their routine.

“About as far from it as you could possibly be.”

“Then colour me confused. When you two came back from your little date last night, you were all loved-up. What happened?”

It’s Lexa’s turn to ‘ _tsk_ ’ now, watching as Cammie is flung up into the air and brought back down again, the whole thing looking nearly effortless.

“First, it wasn’t a date – we _just_ went out for ice cream. Second, that is absolutely none of your business.”

Lexa’s gaze strays to the side for the first time that night, to the gaggle of red and black just left of her.

Clarke blinks back, eyes lucid and bright, brows furrowed deep. She looks to Lexa, then over her shoulder to the routine still in progress on the field, and then back.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll choose to believe you this time. Just know, I think you’re making a huge mistake if you don’t go after that girl. You won’t find anyone better than her.”

Their eyes don’t leave each other’s. It’s almost like there are words Clarke is trying to say, and Lexa just isn’t speaking the same language; she can’t make them out.

The music fades, the crowd cheers. Lexa watches Polis’ cheerleaders exit the field at the same time Arkadia’s pass them and begin to make their own formation. The audience is louder, when Arkadia is out there – home field advantage, Lexa supposes.

Clarke’s legs are bared, though she wears a black long-sleeve under her cheer uniform. Her hair is up in a ponytail, neatly tied back with a red and black ribbon. The music starts, and Lexa wouldn’t be surprised if her ears were perked like a dog’s because that’s her fucking song.

Well, not _her_ song, but it’s a song from the album she gave to Clarke that night in her bedroom. It’s remixed, meshed with heavy beats and sped up a bit, but it’s one of her songs.

“This sounds really familiar. Lex, do you know what this is? I could swear I’ve heard this somewhere before. Can you figure it out?”

Of course, she can. Lexa names the band and the song, and Anya nods vigorously, taking a sip of her drink.

Like this is precisely what she was thinking, Anya says, “right, right! You love them! I bought you one of their albums last Christmas.”

Lexa nods, only half-listening. Clarke is flung high into the air and twists, landing with ease in a few other girl’s arms. A lock of her hair is loose from her ponytail, flopping in front of her face. She tries to blow it out of the way each time she moves, but it keeps dangling right in her eyes.

“Isn’t it funny that they’d choose this band? They’re so obscure!”

They’re really not, but Lexa isn’t in the business of correcting her older sister. Not _ever_ , but especially not when she’s so completely, unabashedly distracted.

The music stops, the routine concludes. Clarke walks off the field, stops right in the middle of the track and meets her eyes – with purpose. There’s a lingering pause before she starts off toward the stadium exit. Lexa sees Raven turn to call out to Clarke, who either doesn’t hear her or pretends not to listen. Lexa is out of her seat before the last peppy little brat is even off the field. Anya sounds out to her for a moment before giving up.

There’s a blonde head of hair hauling out of the stadium, back around and under the bleachers.

Clarke stops just behind a small equipment shed, the too-bright lights of the field just touching her and casting a grey-tinged glow. Her arms are crossed, foot tapping, lips pursed. Lexa lazily makes her way over, taking her sweet time.

She steps up to Clarke, joining her in the shadows, much too close yet neither of them move. They breathe as one for a moment, the sounds of the field and the raucous crowd becoming muffled the more they regard each other.

“Is there a reason I’ve left my seat tonight, Clarke?” Lexa speaks first, coming off as haughty and perturbed.

Clarke sniffs, her arms still crossed, foot still tapping.

“When were you going to tell me you were… _seeing_ the captain of the Polis High cheer squad?”

Leave it to Clarke Griffin to come from way, _way_ out of left field.

“’ _Seeing_ ’?” Lexa retorts, arching a brow.

Clarke scoffs, rolls her eyes. “Yes. Seeing, dating, _whatever_. I truly don’t want to know.”

“Well, if you don’t want to know, why the _fuck_ are you asking?”

The question is all too intrusive, and immediately irked Lexa. Aside from the completely arbitrary nature of the interrogation, she has absolutely no right to ask anything of the sort. It makes Lexa’s skin uncomfortable, itchy.

“Because my number one interest is my team, and if there’s someone snitching on us to the adversary… well, it’s in my interest to stop it.”

“Jesus… you’re _crazy_.”

Clarke blinks at her, confused. “I’m sorry, what?”

Lexa scoffs, folding her own arms now and mirroring Clarke’s stance. “You’ve lost the plot, lady. ‘ _Snitching_ ’, ‘ _adversary’_? What are you, the FBI?”

“I suppose in this instance… yes, I am the FBI.”

“Then I’ll need a warrant before I tell you anything about my personal affairs, Agent Griffin. It’s in _my interest_ to keep my private life precisely that – _private_.”

Clarke sighs and leans back against the metal siding of the shed, and Lexa thinks she might be able to see the fight leaving her. It rolls off her shoulders in nearly tangible waves.

“Listen, Lexa – my squad is on my back because there were a few… similarities between our routines tonight. Especially Raven, she’s just about ready to walk up to your…” Clarke pauses, swallows. Lexa’s brows knit together. “… your _girlfriend_ and serve her a slice of ‘whoop ass.’”

Lexa nods. She steps closer. “And what makes you think my _girlfriend_ wouldn’t be able to handle Reyes?”

She’s much too close now to mistake Clarke’s wince for anything other than what it is. She’s grimacing a bit, like she’s in pain – did she fall? Did Lexa blink and miss it? But no, she couldn’t have. Lexa would have seen it.

Clarke’s eyes are downward, looking at her black sneakers in the un-kempt grass.

“I don’t know. I don’t know her. But I do know Raven, and she’s… a lot.”

“Clarke.”

Looking up, Lexa is struck with the expression on her face.

Resignation.

It looks like she’s given up.

Her eyebrows arch in the middle, delicate and fair and impossibly sad, her candy pink lips pulled down at the corners, heavy with something. She looks like those distressed angels in Renaissance paintings, looking up at Lexa with wide, glassy eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.

“She seems very sweet – Camden, your girlfriend. She seems nice.”

Lexa’s blood boils, anger surging in her and rushing through her veins so quickly her vision becomes spotty. This is just like her. History is always repeating itself. How could she be so stupid?

“You’re such a fucking idiot, Clarke.”

The angel reawakens, nostrils flaring a bit.

“I’m sorry, _what_?” she hisses.

Lexa’s lips quirk up into a lop-sided smile, her eyes narrowed. She continues to speak, urging Clarke closer to a breaking point Lexa isn’t even sure she possesses. But it is too dreadfully heart-breaking to see her so withdrawn.

“Don’t play dumb blonde with me, Griffin. I know you better by now.”

“What right do you have – “

Lexa acts quickly, grasping Clarke’s wrists in both hands and shoving her back against the shed with a great, metallic ‘ _thunk_.’ The sound reverberates for a moment in the silence between them. Lexa leans in, her nose brushing against Clarke’s. Their lips nearly touch with the proximity.

Lexa’s chest feels like it might implode altogether.

They respire heavily, into and around each other, mouths open, tasting the other’s breath – Clarke’s is warm, and smells of sugary sports drink. The scent of sweat is honeyed on her, mixed with the ever-present floral that Lexa suspects might be less to do with a perfume and more to do with just _her_.

She’s sure Clarke would fight her, the moment she moved. Maybe she’d scream, or kick her legs. There would be some kind of fuss.

There is absolutely none.

Clarke’s chest heaves against her own, full and warm, and pressing tight against her cheer uniform as she strains closer to Lexa. The deep v-neck of her shirt exposes a delicious slice of her neck and collarbones, glittering in the faint light with a delicate sheen of perspiration. Every time Clarke breathes, their chests brush together. It’s slowly driving Lexa mad.

Everything is hot – her skin, Clarke’s skin, their breath. Clarke leans forward, her body melting into Lexa’s, every curve filling the spaces Lexa’s slim figure lacks.

The sound that chokes from between Clarke’s lips has Lexa stifling a groan deep in her chest.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she manages in the air between them.

“Lexa,” she whispers. A shiver rolls up the brunette’s spine. “I…”

Lexa shifts, moving her hands from around Clarke’s wrists to lacing their fingers together, still holding her hands up against the shed on either side of her head. She squeezes, her nails digging into the backs of Lexa’s hands, surely leaving some kind of mark.

And then she’s leaning forward, and when their lips just touch, barely brushing, it feels like she’s fucking falling. Like she’s down the rabbit hole, tumbling without a parachute, no bottom anywhere in sight and they’re not even kissing.

She’s surrounded by Clarke, drowning in her, in all of it. She wants to open her arms and descend as deep as she’ll let her. She would gladly fall into the absolute abyss.

“ _Clarke_?”

The voice is not her own. It’s shrill, high, very young and female.

They step away from each other, and Lexa must double-check she isn’t intoxicated. It certainly feels like it.

An extremely slender girl with muted, dirty blonde hair stands in the grass facing them, her fists clenched tight. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving.

“Charlotte,” Clarke breathes, stepping toward the girl, though it comes across as more of a stumble. Lexa wants to reach out for her, but shoves her hands in her pockets instead.

“Oh my God… oh my _God_!” the girl – Charlotte – repeats, her tone grating on Lexa.

“It’s not what you think – “

“It’s _exactly_ what I think it is… you were – you were kissing that… that _girl_!” Charlotte spits like it’s a dirty word, pointing an accusatory finger at Lexa. Against her better judgement, Lexa snorts at the offending digit.

“I wasn’t, I – “

“You were. You _were_!” the girl interrupts, sounding almost hysterical. “I can’t believe… Clarke, I never…” she stutters. And then her eyes harden. “You’re _disgusting_.”

Lexa steps forward at that. “Hey…”

Charlotte rounds on her, shoulders squared. She reminds Lexa of a rabid animal. It wouldn’t be all too surprising if she began foaming at the mouth.

Except the next words out of that very same mouth are absolute poison. Pure vitriol, and she spits them like venom.

“Shut up, you… _faggot_! Both of you! You’re both filthy.”

The words aren’t as painful as they once were for Lexa. But it doesn’t stop her from wincing at them, at the connotation behind them. Especially from such a young girl’s mouth.

But Clarke…

Big tears roll down her cheeks in steady streams, running down her neck. Pools of liquid gather against her lashes and spill over, and her chest heaves with painful sounding breaths.

“I’m telling everyone. I’m telling everyone what you are, Clarke. That you’re… _gay._ ”

Charlotte turns and runs off back toward the field. Clarke immediately starts after her. Lexa reaches out, grasping her forearm. The blonde spins around.

“ _Please_ ,” she chokes, pulling against her grip. “Please, _don’t_. Let me go. I need to stop her, I _need_ – “  
  
“Clarke – ”

“Let me go! _Let me go!”_ Clarke screams, ripping her arm away and chasing after Charlotte.

Lexa leans back against the shed, running her hands through her hair.

The crowd erupts. The announcer crackles over the speakers:

_‘What an upset! After a promising lead, Arkadia pulls ahead at the bottom of the third quarter to overtake Polis. It’s looking like a tough road ahead for the Titans…’_

* * *

 

Lexa rounds the corner of the stadium entrance, eyes wide and cheeks flushed red-hot. She scans the field, the sidelines, the track, even the stands. Anya sits straight, munching on her bag of popcorn – completely oblivious.

She wonders if she should tell Anya. Her sister would know what to do, surely. Always the level-headed one, forever even-tempered, the mediator.

But then she’d have to tell Anya everything. And she’s not sure if she’s quite prepared for that eventuality.

She steps forward, unsteadily, shielding her eyes from the harsh lights. The crowd gasps and Lexa starts, eyes frantically searching.

Raven stands, arms crossed and eyebrows pinched tightly together, her mouth in a deep-set straight line of pure frustration. She’s walking toward Lexa now, and before she can escape Raven calls out.

“ _Woods_! You stay exactly where you are, if you know what’s good for you.”

Lexa’s back is turned and Raven walks around her, coming to face her head-on.

“My captain goes missing, and then one of my freshman goes missing. Moments later, you round the corner with a ‘cat-that-ate-the-canary’ look on your pretty little face. Am I supposed to believe you – “

“Clarke is in trouble.”

Raven’s expression changes in an instant. Her arms drop, her mouth pulls down into a frown. Her eyes widen as she leans forward and whispers, “What do you mean, ‘ _in trouble_?’”

Lexa swallows – a nearly impossible task. It feels like her throat is made of dry sandpaper and she’s trying to gulp a mouthful of dirt.

“Charlotte caught her and I… we were…”

“You were what? Smoking? Was Clarke smoking with _you_? I swear to God, that girl is a walking paradox…”

“We weren’t smoking.”

There’s an extended moment where Lexa tries not to meet Raven’s eyes, though the other girl makes it nearly impossible. Her gaze cuts straight through. And then there’s the sound of a slow gasp, and Lexa looks up to see Raven covering her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, no... oh, Lexa, what _happened_?”

Lexa shoves her hands in her pockets, sniffing.

“Listen, we really don’t have time for this. I don’t know where they went, and it’s obvious you haven’t seen them either…”

Raven looks over Lexa’s shoulder, back inside the stadium. She purses her lips and sighs.

“No, I haven’t.”

Faintly, there’s a sound that makes both turn. It’s indistinct, hard to hear over the raucous crowd behind them, but it’s audible. It sounds like screaming – high-pitched, shrill. It sounds like a fight.

Lexa’s feet are moving before she even has time to consider what she might do when she finds them. Raven trails just behind her, almost matching her strides. The voices get louder the closer they come to the parking lot, until they turn and catch sight of them.

Charlotte is red-faced, screaming so loudly that a vein is visible, straining on her forehead. Her posture is rigid, her back arched like an animal bearing its teeth, waiting to strike. Her words are absolute malice, all directed at Clarke…

Clarke, who stands with her arms at her sides, ponytail loose at the nape of her neck, messy locks falling haphazard around her wet face. She bites her bottom lip, so hard it looks to Lexa as if it might be breaking skin.

Charlotte spews hate after hate, threat after threat. Lexa and Raven approach from behind her, cautiously. At one point, she recites a bible verse and Clarke nearly crumples, her shoulders bending forward as if there’s a weight to the words themselves.

“Get the _fuck_ away from her,” Raven says, her voice loud and firm. Charlotte spins, eyes wild.  
  
“Did you know?” Charlotte hisses, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Did you know she was like this, Raven?”

Raven furrows her brows and steps forward, hands up. “Know what, Charlotte?”  
  
Clarke’s eyes widen, her lips parting in a half-gasp and Lexa steps forward, words spilling from her lips to cut the girl off.

“Listen, kid, you’re obviously… upset. But you can’t – “

“Shut up!” Charlotte barks. “Don’t talk to me. You’re _sick_ ,” she continues, arms flailing, words flowing together fast, barely recognizable. She sounds like she’s speaking in tongues.

Lexa’s face heats up with indignation and strides forward without a thought, but Raven holds out an arm to stop her.

“Charlotte… what are you _doing_?” Raven whispers, confused more than anything.

“Clarke… I saw her, she’s a sinner,” she shouts, rounding on Clarke once more. “ _Sinner_!” she bellows, pointing a finger directly in her face.

“Charlotte, _please_ ,” Clarke begs, and nausea rolls anew in Lexa’s gut. She looks as if she’s beseeching for her life.

A hand rests on Lexa’s shoulder and she jumps, turning.

Anya and Cammie stand before her, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“Lexa, _what_ is going on?”

The argument is reaching a head now, she can hear it, even as she turns and places her back to it all.

“What are you doing out here?” Lexa speaks between clenched teeth.

Anya looks between Lexa, Cammie and the scene behind her for a moment before responding.

“I… I saw you and Raven, by the exit and you were… you looked – “

“Raven, Clarke? What’s going on?”

It takes Lexa a second to remember his name - but Finn, clad in his big, blocky football gear jogs toward them. He holds his helmet by his side and Lexa wonders when this became a fucking class reunion.

“Oh, Christ. Looks like the gang’s all here,” Lexa mumbles.

“What’s going on, Lexie?” Cammie whispers, brows furrowed and arms crossed, the picture of confusion and unease. Lexa’s heart aches for her a bit.

And then it’s as if the world has shifted on it’s axis. A shuffle and a commotion, and Finn bolts forward. Lexa turns just in time to catch the act.

Charlotte leaps, throwing all her weight into a heavy fist that collides directly with Clarke’s face. Her head is rocked to the side, and she barely has time to recover before Charlotte claws at her.

Bellamy wraps her arms tightly around Charlotte’s abdomen, pulling the girl away and Lexa’s moving, running as Clarke collapses to the ground and she’s not fast enough, she’s _not fucking fast enough_.

Clarke stares up at the sky, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, and blood runs in a steady stream from her nostril. Lexa kneels beside her, shaky hands brushing hair out of Clarke’s face.

“ _Clarke_?” Lexa chokes, watching as the blonde’s hand comes up to dab at her nose, pulling away and marvelling at the deep colour on her finger tips. Lexa wraps her arm around the back of her small shoulders, helping her to sit up. “Are you okay?”  
  
Silence. The blonde watches the crimson drop flow from the tips of her fingers to her knuckle. Lexa puts her hand to either side of Clarke’s face and forces her to make eye contact.

“ _Please_ , love, answer me. Are you alright?”

Everything is fast, much too fast for her to comprehend. There are people all around now, shouting and fussing, but she couldn’t be bothered to look at them. Not when Clarke meets her eyes and blinks heavily, her lids looking weighted and tired. A tear falls, like crystalline on porcelain down her cheek, mixing with the blood of a small cut just above her jaw. Lexa moves her hand, cupping her face and then tangling her fingers into impossibly soft blonde curls. Clarke’s eyes close.

In an instant, hands are everywhere; pulling Lexa up and away, the sour smell of dirt and sweat hitting her as Finn lifts Clarke from the ground and sets her on her feet. Hands drag her back and down the parking lot, over to her Mustang.

There’s an eerie chill in the air, dark and ominous and uncomfortable. The sky churns, navy mixed with clouds the color of ash. The wind cuts her cheek.  
  
Blood drips to the pavement. Lexa watches it fall, steady at first but now it slows. It stains, running over the ‘a’ in the word ‘Warriors’ emblazoned to the front of the cheer uniform, the streak drying to a murky reddened brown.  
  
The expanse of the parking lot is sickening. Lexa wishes she could will its distance to close up… maybe swallow her whole in the process.  
  
_God, she never wanted this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello again. :)
> 
> I can't apologize enough for the extended break. I've even missed the opportunity to wish you all a merry Christmas and happy holidays! Without going into too much detail, I've had a weird few months as I've been dealing with unexpected health problems of my own, as well as a recent family emergency with a parent (who is doing much, much better, thank god!) Needless to say, it was a very extended break, but I'm (hopefully) back now, and really eager to start posting a little more regularly again... well, as 'regular' as I ever was, haha. Thank you for the comments and messages in the meantime, I did read them and they always brought a smile to my face, even though all the muck and crap going on.  
> If you'd like, you can follow me on Tumblr (I'm astrangecupoftea on there, as well!) for updates on this story and general life things. I had so many lovely messages whilst I was away from people on there, so I'd like to say a quick thank you to them for the sweet words. Drop by for a chat anytime, I'm usually procrastinating by reblogging pictures of pretty things. :)
> 
> Until next time. xx


	8. baby, you've got to be more demanding: i will be your's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's take a trip to Angstville...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello there -- bet you didn't think you'd be seeing me again. I'll leave the heart-to-heart until the end, but send you off into the chapter with a warning: some dark subjects are touched upon here. Enjoy the ride, and I'll see you at the bottom.

_One week later…_

 

 

  
_Drip… drip… drip…_

Keys clack at a steady rhythm, the unrelenting back-beat of rain that flows just outside her window keeping time with fingers hitting buttons. She hasn’t ceased for… she couldn’t say how long, her brain completely fatigued from overuse. A cursory glance at the clock reads quarter-past-one, but she could have sworn it had been just after eleven a few moments ago.

_Drip… drip… drop._

A fat globule lands on her windowsill, in just far enough for the splash to hit her freshly printed pages paper-clipped neatly together on the desk, blurring ink into watery blue streaks.

“Damn it,” she huffs, pushing a frizzy lock of hair from her eyes with the back of a hand. She stands, page in hand, shaking it off to no avail.

This is what she gets for rushing. If she hadn’t been so overwhelmed and distracted, hadn’t let everything pile up, she wouldn’t be in this situation. Her pink, fluffy bunny slippers make soft plodding sounds on the floor as she flops into bed, laying back with arms spread wide to either side. Exhaustion hits her, heavy and unwanted, eyes drooping of their own accord as she gazes at the ceiling. The light from her candle flickers off the white wainscoting and casts warm, golden shadows.

She’s always loved the sound of rain, the smell... even the cool feel of it against her skin. The rhythmic tapping like a lullaby… her eyes close and she listens, enjoying the sound.

_Drip… drip… drip..._

 

* * *

 

 

Her eyes snap open with a violent jolt as she's awoken. She's blinking hard, eyes blurry, heart beating hard and fast. Something strange flutters in her chest.

Clarke sits up suddenly and much too quickly – her head spins as she seeks out her clock.

Breathing a sigh of relief, her shoulders hunch and she holds a hand to her forehead – 4:55 AM. She almost thought she was late for class.

Her candle is nearly burned through, just a slight pool of wax and a withering flame left. Her lamp is on, window open with a small but growing puddle of rainwater gathered on the sill and dripping onto the desk. Clarke rubs her eyes, sleepily padding to the white wooden tabletop and blowing out the pitiful flame.

She reaches forward to shut her window but pauses, arm outstretched.

Exhaust fumes float into the cold night air from the back of a shiny, black car parked at the curb in front of the house. The streetlights don’t quite hit the interior, but she doesn’t need to see her to know who it is.

Her stomach lurches, her heart feels like it’s simultaneously come to a complete standstill and that it may be trying to force its way out of her chest.

The headlights flicker on. The engine roars. She’s gone, and Clarke is left wondering if it hadn’t all been a dream.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The halls are clear, class in session, and though the school is filled with people there's an almost eerie silence.

Clarke is pushing through the library doors out into the halls, hefting her overloaded messenger bag higher on her shoulder, when she catches that unmistakable glint of auburn pushing through the swinging door of the bathroom. Her heart stumbles in her chest, throat constricting, and a strange kind of rage flows through her.

It's been _over a week_ since that night, and not a peep from Lexa. Her lip is barely healed and though it's her only visible injury, it's the least painful by far.

Her feet are moving quicker now, moving without her permission, without her knowing what she's even going to say. And then she's swinging the door open and stepping through and Lexa is before her. Their eyes meet in the mirror - the wild-haired girl turns slowly, cautiously.

“Hey…” Clarke breathes, wetting her bottom lip, feeling the raised scar.

A blink, and Lexa clenches her jaw and crosses her arms, mouth set into a grim line.

“How are you?” Clarke tries again.

A scoff that chills her, but nothing else.

“I see. Have you, um... finished Mr. Kane’s essay? It was a killer, I was up all night trying to get it done.”

Lexa’s eyes narrow, lush jade behind a curtain of thick, dark lashes and simmering with derision. Clarke looks away, fumbling and fidgeting, words bouncing around her head in a jumbled mess, nothing connecting or making sense. She chews on her lip, willing her brain to gather itself.

“I, um – “

“Jesus, your lip…”

Lexa is stepping forward, touching her, hand on her face, cupping her cheek as her thumb runs along her bottom lip. There’s a strange, warm feeling and when she pulls her hand away, the girl's thumb is smeared a sickening crimson red.

“Oh, I didn’t even notice,” Clarke gasps, moving to dab with her sleeve.

Lexa reaches out, stopping her just before the fabric of her sweater can contact her mouth.

“Don’t… you’ll ruin your cardigan,” she grumbles. "Sit."

She nods toward the sink, her tone shaking Clarke so much it takes a moment to move. She pads quickly, quietly to the rows of sinks and mirrors - stopping first to observe herself, eyes widening in abject horror at the sight.

Blood trickles, dark and viscous, marking a morbid line from her bottom lip down her chin; frizzy hair tied back haphazardly into a messy bun, frazzled bits falling around her face; thick, grey cardigan falling off one shoulder but still somehow looking as if it’s swallowing her whole. And to think, she thought she’d been trying today when she swiped on a coat of mascara before leaving the house. Perhaps she should’ve been more focused on the state of her hair and less on the state of her eyes, which stared back at her with a dull, uninspiring tone and deep-set bags.

She turns, hopping up on the counter and tucking loose strands behind her ears, twirling a ring on her finger and watching Lexa as she first washes the blood from her hands then dampens a paper towel, shoulders tensed and rigid. It feels to Clarke, in that moment, as if she were watching an untamed animal in a cage – edgy, on the offensive, poised to attack.

“Do you feel that?”

Lexa steps forward, in between Clarke’s legs as they swing off the edge of the counter. She holds her chin with one hand, the other dabbing at her lip and leaning in - eyes intent, focused on Clarke’s mouth.

“Do I… feel what?”

She looks up, making brief eye contact before looking back to the task at hand.

“Your lip. Does it hurt?”

She can feel Lexa’s breath on her neck – it’s warm as she breathes in short, quick bursts – more out than in. Clarke’s brows crinkle.

“Oh, uh - no. Not really.”

“Yes, or no? ‘ _Not really_ ’ isn’t an answer.”

“I don’t know, I guess – “

“ _Clarke_.”

“No. I don’t feel it,” Clarke snaps. Lexa’s eyes narrow. “Happy now?”

“Peachy keen,” she sighs, leaning back for a moment and grabbing a dry piece of paper towel, dabbing away the residual dampness.

With no overhead light, the murky glow filtering through the windows casts a muted tone over everything, dulling the already chilly room. Silence with a capital ‘S’ swallows the two figures whole, wrapping them in a painful choke hold, sucking air from the room. Clarke tries to meet Lexa’s eyes in vain. The girl is resolved, too committed to the task at hand, face carved from steel and stone and Clarke’s of brittle porcelain – tiny cracks along the surface, exposed for the world and Lexa couldn’t give a damn.

For a moment, Clarke might nearly cry at the thought of misty grey stadium lights, the scent of cinnamon and smoke warm on her face, grassy dew drops tickling her legs. It seems a lifetime ago, a dream more willingly than recollection.

“You haven’t said a word to me since…”

Lexa’s nostrils flare, but there’s no other sign that she’s acknowledged Clarke is even speaking.

“Did I do something to offend you?” she tries, eyebrow raised and tone clipped, hoping to get a rise out of her. If she couldn’t bring back her strange pseudo-amiability, she could at least attempt to evoke Lexa’s ire. Anything would be better than this radio silence.

“Why aren’t you answering me?” Clarke snaps, rearing her head back from Lexa’s ministrations. She looks up, lips pursed, and the brief eye contact is the best it’s been thus far so Clarke pushes as far as she’ll allow her. “I must have offended you, to deserve this.”

“ _This_? What is _this_ , Clarke? I haven’t done anything to you. Like you said, I haven’t even spoken to you – “

Clarke throws her hands in the air, letting them hit the counter top with a ‘smack.’

“Yes, exactly! You’re right – you haven’t done _anything_. Quite strange for you, don’t you think? You are the Queen of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, are you not?”

Lexa’s eyes narrow, shoulders squaring as she leans forward and plants her hands palm-down on either side of Clarke’s thighs.

Clarke's eyes widen, watching the girl in anticipation. This is what she’d wanted – a reaction, and she was getting it. She opens her mouth to retort – something sharp and biting, Clarke has no doubt – and then snaps her mouth closed, resting her fingers over her lips as if to block the words from coming out.

Clarke is certain her heart drops to the soles of her shoes.

Lexa pushes back from the counter, takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

“Why do you do this to me?”

Of all the things Clarke imagined about this situation, the last thing she expected Lexa to say was that – and in such a withering, defeated tone no less.

“Do _what_ to you?” she mutters, voice coming out as nothing more than a whisper.

Clarke traces the line of Lexa’s jaw with her eyes as she clenches it, then the muscles of her throat as she swallows – hard.

She turns abruptly to discard the tissues before hastily making her way to the exit. Clarke holds her breath.

And the door makes a seemingly deafening sound as it swings shut behind her.

Clarke crumples back against the mirror, shoulders sagging with the weight of it all as she buries her face in her hands and lets the tears she bit back fall in great, hot waves down her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

“So... if Romeo never met Juliet, you don’t think the loser would’ve offed himself anyway?”

“What? No, obviously not – the entire reason he thought Juliet was dead is because she pretended to croak first.”

“Yeah, but… Romeo _was_ a bit of a drama queen, wasn’t he?”

Octavia scoffs around chewed-up apple, rolling her eyes. “And Juliet wasn’t?”

Raven opens her mouth to retort, squints, closes her mouth and eventually nods.

“No, you’re totally right. They were both the absolute worst.”

Bellamy snorts, closing his textbook with a bang that makes Clarke jump. He sends her a questioning look, raising an eyebrow, to which she can only shake her head at. She resumes her staring at the door, cheek propped up on her hand, elbow resting on the wooden library table.

“Riveting conversation you guys, but you are aware you’re studying ‘ _The Taming of the Shrew_ ’ - not ‘ _Romeo and Juliet_ '. Right?” Bellamy sighs.

Octavia takes another bite, speaking before she swallows. “Well, yeah. But... this is just so boring!”

“Blake, I truly do long for the day you learn to speak _before_ or _after_ you eat - not during,” Raven smirks.

“Too true – ladies are supposed to be polite and proper,” Finn cuts in, feet propped up on the table, arms behind his head.

“Oh, shut up! Don’t think I've forgotten the image of you drunkenly eating an entire pizza off a dirty beer pong table last summer,” Octavia fires back. "It is, unfortunately, burned onto my retinas."

“Good thing I’m not a lady, then,” he winks.

“ _Could’ve fooled me_ ,” she mutters in retaliation.

Finn’s face crumbles into a mask of indignation, and Clarke rolls her eyes. The boy is nearly impervious to insult – except for where his manhood is concerned.

“Shut _up_ ,” he growls. Octavia narrows her eyes at him and leans in, taking another bite right in front of his face. “Ugh, gross! Take it back or I’m going to shove that apple down your – “

“Mr Collins!” A shrill voice sounds from directly behind his chair. The librarian pushes her squeaky book cart in front of her. “Kindly take your feet off the table... and _watch your mouth._ ”

Finn huffs, planting his feet on the ground and running his hands through his hair. He catches Clarke looking at him and throws her a wink.

“Like what you see, Griffin?”

Clarke crinkles her nose, not feeling up to the charade today. “Not particularly, no.”

Raven and Octavia erupt into a fit of giggles.

Monty walks past, casting an unsure look over at Clarke who can only grimace and look away. Charlotte's sudden absence from the squad caused an unexpected rift in the group - particularly when Raven let it slip her and Clarke knew precisely what happened to the girl, and still refused to tell anyone.

But how could she tell them that Charlotte was gone... as in _really gone_ , wasn't coming back? That her parents withdrew her from school and shipped her off to God knows where?

Clarke's stomach turns, the feeling of bile rising in her throat unmistakable as she thinks of the one place Charlotte could be...

“What’s the deal, Griff? You seem like you’re on another planet.”

Clarke jolts, looks at Bellamy and sighs, leaning back in her hard, plastic chair and tugging at a loose thread on her cardigan sleeve.

“I genuinely wish I were.”

 

* * *

 

The speakers crackle indistinctly for a moment before a high, bright voice reverberates around the classroom, much too shrill. Clarke winces, burying her face into the crook of her elbow, arms folded atop her desk.

“ _Save the date, Warriors – Homecoming is this Friday! If you haven’t purchased your tickets yet, what are you waiting for? Come see me and the Homecoming Committee in the quad at lunch to buy your way into the party of the year!_ ”

There’s a nudge in her side, and Clarke looks up to see Finn scoff and wiggle his eyebrows at her.

“’Party of the year’ without any alcohol? Sounds like a bore, am I right?” he bellows, loud enough for the whole class to hear – they whoop and holler in response as Finn tucks his hands behind his head triumphantly. Clarke can only muster an insincere smile with tremendous effort before returning to her previous position.

“ _And don’t forget to cast your ballot for Homecoming King and Queen while you’re there._ ”

Clarke jumps as the lunch bell sounds, yawning and throwing her backpack over one shoulder. She turns, expecting Finn to be at her side only to be met with an empty desk. In the hallway, she thinks she might just be able to make out the top of his head bobbing through the throng of students, moving in the opposite direction of the cafeteria.

“Griffin, there you are! Where’s ‘Tall, Dark and Doofus’?” Raven questions, linking arms with her and pulling them forward – Clarke nearly tripping over her feet, tired mind clouded over.

“I have no idea. I think I saw him heading to the gym…”

“Finn Collins, walking away from food? What alternate hellscape universe are we living in?” Raven shakes her head in mock-disgust, eliciting a small laugh from the blonde. She purses her lips, glancing at Clarke from the corner of her eye. “That’s the first laugh I’ve heard from you all day. What’s shakin’?”

Clarke watches her loafers pad along the grey cement of the outdoor cafeteria as they approach their table, shrugging.

“Nothing. Just… tired.”

“Tired? What, didn’t get enough sleep last night?”

“Something like that.”

Raven opens her mouth to respond but is stopped short when Octavia makes a characteristically loud entrance.

“Can you believe it’s Meatball Monday, and they have the nerve to serve chili dogs?  _Chili dogs_. How can a meager chili dog compare when I was prepared for the delicious, soggy masterpiece that is an Arkadia High meatball sub?”

Bellamy places his tray down beside Octavia’s, the corner of his lip lifting in a crooked smirk.

“It’s blasphemy, O.”

“Blasphemy in its truest form!” she pouts, slamming her fist on the table once in defiance before diving into her food, despite the protestations.

Once everyone is settled and Raven and Octavia are engaged in a riveting conversation about the merits of string cheese, Bellamy leans over to Clarke.

“Where’s Collins?”

Clarke chews on the straw of her juice box absentmindedly, the other hand busy doodling small caricatures of the duo across from her on a notebook.

“I’m not sure, actually. One second he was beside me and the next, he was halfway down the hall.”

She’s just finished sketching in a smear of chilli on Octavia’s cheek when there’s a loud murmur from the crowd, rolling and building from the front all the way to their table in the back. At the sound of her name, Clarke glances up and immediately drops her pen.

Finn approaches the table, dressed in a dapper three-piece suit – followed by about half the football team and some of her very own cheer squad carrying gratuitously large silver balloons that spell out, in sickening Mylar:

**CLARKE**

Mortification grips her so intensely she can feel it in her bones. Heat radiates off her cheeks and she looks around desperately, as if wishing there were another Clarke somewhere Finn might be mistaking her for.

“My fair maiden!” Finn hollers, a wide beam stretched across his face as he and his posse stop in front of her.

“Holy _shit_ …” Bellamy chokes out, horror mixed with mirth coloring his tone. Clarke wishes she could speak at all.

Finn lunges forward zealously, grasping both her hands in his clammy ones and pulling her up. He meets her eyes for a moment before steeling himself and stepping aside, motioning with an arm toward his mob who produce a large roll of paper and begin to unravel it as he speaks.

“Would you do me the absolute honor of accompanying me…”

The word glares back at her in neon pink poster paint like something out of Barbie’s nightmares.

“… to Homecoming?”

Her eyes flit around the cafeteria unblinkingly, vision becoming static at the edges and skipping around. A dreadful, nauseated sensation builds from deep in her gut, constricting her chest and closing her throat. Her ears become muffled as the crowd begins to chant, banging on tables, ‘ _say yes, say yes, say yes!_ ’

Just over the heads of her observers, leaning against the school with arms crossed and one leg propped against the wall behind her, is Lexa – eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with absolute derision, watching the scene with unconcealed contempt. Clarke can no sooner look away from her than she can manage to take a shaky breath and say, eyes still settled on the girl:

“No.”

Finn lets out a startled laugh, eyebrows furrowed, and sidles up to Clarke.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he says, hand wrapping tightly around her bicep. Clarke looks away, down at his hand around her arm then directly at him as she repeats herself, louder this time.

“ _No_.”

A heavy lull spreads in inverse of the initial wave of excitement, from the table closest to her own outward – then, in mere seconds, whispers begin building into a cacophony of sound.

“What… what do you mean ‘ _no_ ’?” Finn chokes, grip tightening.

Dread builds in her chest once more and she grits her teeth, trying to wrench from his grasp.

“Let go of me, Finn.”

He stares at her, expression frighteningly steady, muscles taut. He pulls her closer, giving her arm a shake, breath hot on her face. “Clarke, what do you mean no? You’re… _rejecting me_?”

She tries removing herself from his grip once more, using her other hand to pry his fingers from around her arm with little hope.

“Yes. Now let _go_ , Finn – I mean it.”

Their audience is alert now, finely tuned and ready to witness a clash – eager as always for new hallway fodder, and this was poised to be the first new piece of hot gossip for the year. Her eyes begin to cloud with static once more, ears muffling.

_Let me go… please let me go, just let me go…_

“I went to all this trouble, Clarke. I did all of this for you… how could you say no to me? I did this for _you_.”

His words sound like they’re being spoken from behind a pane of glass, and her fingers begin to tingle – is he cutting off her circulation? But no, because both of her hands are tingling, and they’re feeling numb and her heart… God, it’s beating nearly out of her chest.

“And it’s lovely, Finn, really. It’s just – “

“She already said yes to me.”

Bellamy grasps Finn’s wrist in his own, tight enough to withdraw the grip on her almost immediately.

Finn steps back swiftly, rubbing with his other hand where Bellamy’s had just been.

A rush of dizziness mixed with an almost overwhelming feeling of relief overtakes her, and she places her palm over the now throbbing skin of her bicep.

“ _You_? You asked her?” Finn stutters, roughly raking his hand through his hair. “ _When_?”

Bellamy sighs, placing his hand on the small of Clarke’s back and rubbing reassuring circles.

“Stop shaking, you’re alright now,” he mutters, low enough for her alone to hear. She hadn’t even noticed she’d _been_ shaking, but as she closes her eyes and lets herself breathe deeply and evenly, her body begins to still.

“How could you do this to me, Bell?” Finn chokes, his eyes scrunching shut. “I told you, man. I fucking _told you_ I wanted to ask her!”

“I’m sorry – I asked before you even mentioned it.”

“So, you let me do it anyway, knowing she was going to say no? What kind of sick fuck are you? You could have told me when… when…”

Finn’s chest heaves with hard breaths. And then in a quick moment too fast for Clarke to comprehend, he’s on Bellamy – one hand fisted in his shirt and the other raised, clenching and unclenching, expression a mask of indecision. Clarke steps back, throwing her hands behind her and catching herself on the edge of the table.

Bellamy stares back, completely still, nostrils flared and shoulders square. The painted sign is discarded somewhere on the ground as their teammates lunge forward, eager to protect their captain.

“ _Don’t_. Don’t be stupid, Collins.”

Bellamy’s tone is low and even, though Clarke can hear an edge to it that runs a chill down her spine – this is his voice of authority, his alpha coming through, the persona that overtakes him when he’s on the field. Calculating and steady. Sure and certain.

“You can walk away now, it’s not too late. Just turn… and walk away.”

Finn’s shoulders droop and though it’s not yet obvious to anyone else, Clarke can see he’s given up – the rest is just a facade, a ruse to make it seem like there’s still some fight left in him. When he drops his fist and lets his grip on Bellamy’s shirt go, there’s an audible sound of disappointment from the gathered students.

Without another glance, Finn turns and pushes his way through the crowd.

The throng watches him go for a moment before turning back, gawking at her and Bellamy.

“Okay... show’s over, people! Mind your own damn business, for once in your lives,” Raven bellows, jumping from her seat and sidling up to Clarke. “Well... I certainly wasn’t expecting dinner-and-a-show, but…”

Octavia throws an arm around Clarke’s shoulders from the other side. “Are you okay? God, what a jackass.”

“I’m sorry to break things up, but I think Clarke and I have something to discuss,” Bellamy interrupts, holding his arm out to her. Clarke takes it gratefully, grasping onto him like a lifeline, knees still shaky despite herself.

When her eyes wander to the wall to find the previously occupied spot empty, she tries not to question why it makes her stomach turn.

 

* * *

 

 

  
“You can go back, if you want. I don’t mind.”

Clarke peels her eyes away from the clock above the counter and back to Bellamy, who smiles at her from behind the rim of a comically large mug. Foam settles on his top lip as he places his latte back on the table.

“… Though I will be a bit upset if you let that hot chocolate get cold.”

She looks down at the beverage in question, hands wrapped around it, enjoying the warmth as it melts through the lingering chill left in her hands – they left school just in time for it to start raining, big drops falling hard and cold around them and Clarke stuck without a jacket. They jumped into Bellamy’s shiny grey Mercedes and made a mad dash to Grounders, their favorite coffee shop, the last two periods left at the back of their minds. The journey was silent save for the sound of the rain belting down on them, the weight of their impending conversation not lost on either of them.

“I don’t want to go back, trust me. Right now, I feel like I never want to set foot in that place again.”

Bellamy smiles without humor, a sympathetic smirk, and leans forward.

“Don’t let them do that to you… don’t let _him_ do that.”

Clarke purses her lips before picking up the steaming mug and taking a tentative sip. Oh, the wonders of chocolate – the rich liquid soothes her dry throat and warms her to the core, as well as saving her from having to respond. She doesn’t think she could, not yet. There was still a need to process the entire event, her reaction to it and Finn’s. Her arm aches, and she reaches to rub it gently.

“Clarke, I…” Bellamy tries, the words dying on his tongue. His eyes lock on her arm, then narrow. “I don’t know how to apologize to you for how Finn reacted. I’ve never seen him like that before, I don’t…”

“Bellamy, no,” Clarke says, voice stronger than she feels. “You have nothing to be sorry for, absolutely nothing. None of this is your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” he sighs, leaning back and taking his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I knew he was going to ask you, Clarke. And I think I knew you were going to say no. I could have… I could have warned at least one of you. I don’t know why I didn’t, I could’ve saved you – “

“But you did save me, Bell. I don’t know what I would have told him if you hadn’t stepped in, and to be honest I’m…”

The weight of her words stops her for a moment. Clarke Griffin wasn’t sure of many things, but the one thing she had always been certain of was her friends. And now…

“He wouldn’t have hurt you, Clarke. He can go a bit… off the handle – “

“But he did.”

Clarke pulls her sweater down, not quite sure what they’ll find underneath – but Bellamy’s expression is enough, even before she looks down to see the blackened plum lurking ominously under pale skin, angry red burst blood vessels dotting the perimeter of the undeniably hand-sized bruise marring her arm.

“ _Jesus_ , Clarke!” Bellamy reaches forward, his hand hovering over the mark. “I saw he was grabbing you, but I had no idea how hard.”

She pulls her sweater up, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s probably just me... I bruise easily.”

Clarke can feel him studying her, watching her much too intently for her comfort.

_Drop it. Just drop it, Bell, please. I’m not sure how much more I can take before I…_

“He won’t touch you like that again, Clarke. I’ll make sure.”

A thought grips her so suddenly she gasps, locking eyes with Bellamy.

“You won’t kick him off the team, will you? _Please_ don’t, don’t do that.”

He sighs, looking off to the side and then back.

“I don’t quite have the power to do that, unfortunately. Is that what you want, Clarke? If it is… I know if I gave coach a very strong suggestion…”

“No, I don’t want that!” she replies, voice becoming a tad shrill in her hysteria.

Bellamy reaches out, putting a reassuring hand on her forearm. “Woah, woah, okay. I won’t say anything. Why does that freak you out so much?”

_Because if Finn gets kicked from the team, it’ll hit him much harder than a little rejection would. And if he had that kind of reaction to something so small…_

“It’s just a little ridiculous, that’s all. Such a big consequence for something so trivial? It seems silly.”

Bellamy moves to retract his hand, but Clarke puts her own on top to stop him. He keeps it there even after she’s moved it back to her mug, not addressing it but instead rubbing small circles with his thumb, and she’s more grateful than she can express to him in words so settles for a smile. It’s the best she can do.

A rush of gratitude for Bellamy washes over her – she doesn’t have any siblings, but she’s always thought him and Octavia to be the closest thing she could ever get to having a brother and sister. Admittedly, when they were kids Clarke had a silly crush on him – it took her much too long to realize what she thought was a crush was just adoration. Bellamy was always the first to climb trees, always first to volunteer to help carry or build things. He was so courteous and brave, a natural-born leader, and Clarke was forever hot on his heels – if Bellamy climbed that tree, so too would Clarke; if Bellamy offered to paint Mrs. Wright’s fence, so would Clarke; if Bellamy ate the red popsicle, so would Clarke.

Everyone made fun of her, told her she was in love with him and wanted his cooties – everyone but Bellamy, who would climb up the next branch and reach down to pull her up beside him; who would show her how to paint with the wood’s grain, not against it; who would give her the last red popsicle if there was only one left. Bellamy was her brother, indefinitely and indelibly.

“I love you, Bell.”

Bellamy smiles in that crooked way, his eyes warm and kind as he grasps her hand in his.

“Love you too, Clarkey… you sap.”

Clarke smiles and moves quickly to wipe away the stray tear that’s collected on her lash line.

“I’m sorry you have to go to Homecoming with me.”

Bellamy throws his head back and laughs, a boisterous sound that’s much too loud for the quiet coffee shop with it’s gentle indie music and murmured conversations – but Clarke doesn’t mind one bit.

“I don’t mind. I mean, it’s a little weird – it’ll kind of be like going to Homecoming with Octavia. You’re pretty much my damn sister…”

Clarke takes another sip of her drink and nearly chokes at her next thought.

“You haven’t asked anyone else, have you?”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows from behind his mug.

“Uh… no.”

“You did, didn’t you? Oh Bell, why didn’t you say anything?! Don’t worry about me, I’ll figure out something else to tell Finn.”

“Chill out, Griffin – I didn’t ask anyone else… well, not yet at least.”

Clarke throws her head back with a groan, covering her eyes with her hands.

“That’s even worse!” she sighs. “Wait… who was it?”

“Oh, no. _No way_ you’re getting that out of me, you’re going to go straight to Octavia and then she’s going to go straight to Raven and… no, there’s no way.”

“Please, Bell? Oh, pretty, pretty please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“ _No!_ ”

“Please?!”

“Fine! Fine, but you have to promise not to try and pull something.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows in mock disbelief. “Little ‘ol me? I would never!”

Bellamy’s eyes narrow, and his finger points directly at her.

“You would, and you know you would.”

“Stop stalling and fess up, Blake – we haven’t got all day,” Clarke sighs, motioning with her hand for him to move on as she sips from her mug.

“Anya Woods.”

This time, Clarke really does choke.

“ _What?!_ Why _Anya Woods_?”

Bellamy frowns, furrowing his brows. “Well, why not Anya Woods? Is there anything wrong with her?”

“No, not at all!” _Just that she has an indescribably complex sister and if she’s anything like her, you need to stay far, far away._ “Just… a bit shocked, that’s all. I didn’t even know you two ran in the same circle.”

Bellamy shrugs. “We don’t, not really. We just had a project together for English Lit, and we got along better than I thought we would.”

“You didn’t rip each other’s heads off, so that qualifies her as a Homecoming date?”

“Yes… No… I don’t know? We might’ve spent some time together outside the confines of school…”

Clarke rests her chin in her palm, gazing at Bellamy in contemplation – who, meanwhile, does his very best ‘nonchalant’ impression.

“Do you want to ask her, Bell? Going stag isn’t sounding too bad to me...”

“Clarke, really – don’t worry about it anymore. We have, like, six other dances this year – and prom! I really don’t mind. I mean, you’re not as nice to look at but – _ow!_ ” Bellamy yelps as Clarke reaches forward to pinch his arm.

“You’re a true comedian.”

“Hey, who knows - it might be a good thing. I’ve heard those Woods girls are dangerous to know.”

Clarke busies herself with her hot chocolate, nodding noncommittally.

_Don't I know it..._

 

 

* * *

 

 

She waits up as long as her rapidly fading faculties will allow her, face tucked into the crook of her arm as she rests on her desk… at least that’s what she told herself - she was ‘just resting her eyes’, _not_ sleeping. She definitely hadn't needed to wipe a tiny bit of drool from the corner of her mouth… certainly not.

The sound of a car door slamming jolts Clarke upright, eyes bleary. She stands, leaning with both palms on the desk to look out her window to the street below.

Parked haphazardly halfway up her driveway and its other half on the street - a glistening black Mustang.

And pacing uncertainly in front of it, hands tangled into her hair... _Lexa_.

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat as she gazes down.

_It hadn’t been a dream, after all._

Lexa stops, kicks into the gravel of the driveway with the toe of her boot and turns back to her car, walking with long, purposeful strides.

Clarke is moving before she has time to consider the consequences – and, like anything with Lexa, she’s sure there would be absolutely no shortage of them. Without much thought, she throws a sweater on over top of her soft, cotton pajama bottoms and tank top, shoving her feet into rain boots and moving as quickly as she can down the hall, then the stairs and to the front door. It feels like a lead weight as she hauls it open.

“Lexa!” she shouts into the night, voice nearly being swallowed by the vast abyss. “ _Wait!_ ”

The engine starts with a roar, headlights flickering on. Clarke stops in the middle of the driveway, wrapping her arms around her middle and waiting. Just waiting.

It's all so precarious. She gets the sense that if she were to step forward, Lexa would flee like a petrified animal; a step back... well, she'd probably do the exact same thing.

The cold bites at her exposed skin, goosebumps raising on her collarbones and neck, hair flying haphazardly in the light breeze.

She can feel rain approaching, taste it in the air.

Clarke stands and waits so long, the first few drops begin to fall. They're light at first, just a mist, sticking to her hair and eyelashes.

And then the deluge hits.

It's like the bottom of the sky has been kicked out, that's how heavy it falls. She feels like someone's dumped a bucket of frigid water over her head, and she's gasping and tucking in closer to herself and closing her eyes against it all, wondering why the hell she doesn't just go inside.

Hands grab at her, pulling her into a warm chest that smells of leather and honey, cigarettes and cinnamon.

Lexa wraps her jacket around Clarke and leans down, speaking into her ear.

"What the fuck are you doing, Griffin? _Get inside_!"

She's shaking her head, not knowing what exactly has gotten into her but truly not caring. It's like something has snapped.

Lexa steps forward, forcing Clarke to stumble back a step - but then she's planting her feet firm in the ground, tucking her head into Lexa's neck and her voice is angry and broken as she whispers:

"No."

The rain drowns out nearly all sound, but she's so close to Lexa she can hear her ragged breaths - God, she can _feel_ them. She turns her face, pressing her forehead against her neck at her pulse point and she can feel just how fast Lexa's heart is beating, too.

" _Clarke_..." she says, voice firm, a warning.

This is wrong. All of this is wrong.

So why can't she stop herself from letting the tip of her nose trail along the soft skin of Lexa's collarbone, from kissing the flesh atop her fluttering vein with shaky uncertainty.

"Clarke, what are you doing?" Lexa chokes, pulling back like she's just bitten her, hands tight around her biceps as she holds her away.

And Clarke can only shake her head, rain sticking hair to her face, gazing up at Lexa in the eerie glow of the streetlamps.

"I don't know."

Lexa laughs and it's bitter and Clarke _hates it, hates it, hates it_.

"Well, who the fuck does, then?"

"I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing here?"

Lexa's clenching her jaw, and the hands around her arms tighten. It's nothing like when Finn gripped her - there's no fear, no panic.

"I... I couldn't sleep. Sometimes when I can't sleep, I just drive around for a while. I don't know why I came... _here_."

Clarke nods, stepping forward, gripping the lapels of her leather jacket and pressing them into each other. Lexa inhales sharply and furrows her brows.

"What the fuck has gotten into you?" she breathes, her eyes darting all around Clarke's face. She doesn't miss how they rest on her lips for a beat too long.

Clarke swallows, her head and her heart screaming two entirely different things at her: step closer; move away. A battle rages inside her, and it's unfair but she's wishing Lexa would just make the first move already to save her the trouble.

"What's gotten into _you_? Ever since... ever since Charlotte, you haven't said a word to me. You've barely even _looked_ at me."

Lexa narrows her eyes and then looks to the side.

"See! You're doing it again!" Clarke says, angrily. She reaches out without thinking, gripping Lexa's chin in her hands and turning her face back. " _Look at me_. Tell me why you've been ignoring me."

"I... can't," she breathes, shaking her head to loosen Clarke's grip.

"Why not? _Why not_?" she demands, and she knows it sounds whiny and desperate but she's made a fool of herself already, so what is there to lose?

Lexa's hands wrap around the ones Clarke still has gripping her coat and pulls them away.

" _No_. No, you are not doing this to me again."

"Doing _what_ to you, Clarke?"

"Pulling away!"

Lexa's eyes widen and she's gaping, incredulous as she pushes her water-laden hair from her face. "Are you fucking hearing yourself right now? _I'm_ pulling away? I've done nothing but offer myself to you, time and time again. _You're_ the one who's pulling away, just like you always do... just like you did."

Not even the frigid rain pelting her skin could chill her as much as Lexa's words do in that moment. They haven't brought up what happened all those years ago, ever. Somehow, she was thinking they could get away with maybe never talking about it.

"That's not fair," Clarke says, and she knows it's stupid but she can't think of anything else because it isn't fair. None of this is.

Lexa shakes her head, closing her eyes. "Not fair for who? You, or me..."

Clarke watches her warily, pulling her cardigan around her in vain - it's entirely soaked through, providing absolutely no warmth.

When Lexa opens her eyes, the look in them makes Clarke gasp.

"... or _Costia_?"

And there it is. Clarke can already feel herself shutting down, feel the fight leaving her. If she backs away from this all now she can still pretend it's not happening - that it never happened.

"No... Clarke, no, don't do this now. Don't start shutting me out," Lexa growls and she's angry, on fire and fuming and so, so beautiful Clarke can't bear to look at her... so she closes her eyes, feeling the warmth of her tears mixing with the unrelenting rivulets of rain flowing down her face.

Maybe if she closes her eyes, she can still pretend she doesn't feel anything for Lexa.

"I think I should go inside now."

She turns away, watching her feet as they tread through the muddy gravel, feeling like she's leaving a part of her behind her as she goes.

" _Fuck you, Clarke!_ "

She stops, so suddenly she nearly trips.

"Fuck you. You can't just keep pretending like this isn't happening, like it hasn't always been happening. You can't keep pretending like you feel nothing for me, when I know you do. Even if it's digust or pity, or maybe even hate... I don't know. But you can't keep fucking with me like this!" she shouts, and when Clarke hears the catch in her voice she can't stop herself from turning around.

Lexa is looking down, hands on her hips as her chest heaves, back arching and falling with huge, gasping breaths.

"You think I hate you?" Clarke says, hesitantly walking forward.

The laugh Lexa lets out is so familiar, bitter and mirthless as she shakes her head and looks away.

"I don't know... I just _don't fucking know_."

And it's not until she's less than a foot away, watching Lexa as she looks anywhere but Clarke, that she sees the tears filling her eyes and threatening to spill over.

She doesn't second guess herself, doesn't let herself think of anything but this moment and this girl and how all she wants to do is wipe every trace of pain from her face - to smooth the furrow in her brows and be the reason she's smiling, instead of this agonized grimace that distorts her lovely features.

She reaches forward, grasping her jacket, pulling her forward as Lexa weaves her hands into Clarke's hair, and their lips collide.

_Finally..._

It's simultaneously exactly like she thought it would be, and nothing like she could have ever imagined. Clarke's chest feels like it's alternately being ripped apart and sewn back together. Lexa's lips are pillowy-soft, warm and giving and forgiving.

She groans, throaty and breathy, and it makes Clarke's stomach lurch. Lexa's hands are everywhere, on her cheeks and her neck, gripping her waist and grasping the hair at the base of her neck and Clarke couldn't stop her moans, even if she tried. She opens her mouth, willing Lexa to take the invitation - she does, tongue sliding over Clarke's all smooth and warm, tasting of honeyed cinnamon and smoke and sweet dewdrops.

The rain pours and pours and pours, doing nothing to stop the tight knot of want that's winding in Clarke's stomach and heating her entire body. She feels like a string strung too tight - one touch and she'll snap.

Lexa brings both hands up to cup her face, slowing their kiss despite Clarke's low, breathy whines. Her thumbs are softly stroking her cheeks, and when she pulls away she moves until her finger is resting on Clarke's bottom lip, their foreheads touching.

Clarke doesn't dare move. This feels as precarious as standing in her drive way only minutes before did. If she breathes the wrong way, the moment will be broken.

The rain is slowing now, steadily, until the pounding of drops against pavement stops and is replaced by an eerie stillness broken only by the occasional sound of water dropping down from the leaves of trees.

And Lexa is the one to step back, lips brushing against Clarke's once, twice, three times before she heavily drops her hands and backs away.

"Where are you going?" Clarke breathes, fingertips brushing against her lonely lips. She can still feel Lexa there, taste her when her tongue peeks out to wet her bottom lip.

"You shouldn't want this. I'm only going to be bad for you."

It feels like there's a weight on her chest - a dense, heavy, uncomfortable feeling that knocks the air out of her.

"What do you mean, _bad for me_?" she pushes, stepping forward.

Lexa steps back, clenches her jaw.

"Charlotte was only the beginning. Imagine what everyone else would say, what your parents would do, " she cuts herself off, shutting her eyes as if in pain. "I can handle it. I _have_ handled it, and worse. But you..."

"You don't get to decide that for me."

"I don't think you really have a choice here, Clarke. We both know that."

She's shaking her head, tears coming steady and fast, hot and angry as they streak down her cheeks.

"We _don't_ , though!" she says - though it comes out as a little bit of a wail, and she should be embarrassed but it feels like something vital is being ripped away from her. "We can't know!"

She stumbles forward on shaky feet and Lexa just keeps backing away, countering every one of Clarke's advances until the backs of her knees hit the hood of her car. Clarke takes one large step forward and presses herself against the girl, hoping against hope she can feel her underneath her thin pajamas, feel her warmth and want and change her mind.

" _Please_... don't make this harder than it has to be. You know what could happen if we do this. You're not ready for that."

This is Lexa deciding for her, again. It sparks a small flame of fury inside her.

"Don't try and tell me what you think is best for me, because you have _no idea_."

"Don't I?" she smiles, and it's cynical and sad.

Clarke can't answer her, because it just keeps coming back to this. Her past - their past - keeps haunting them.

"Will we ever be able to forget her? To move on?" she whispers, staring at Lexa's neck, watching her swallow.

"I don't think she'll let us," she replies and then hesitates for a moment, like she's not sure if she wants to continue. "Sometimes, it's all I can do to just... get through the day without my guilt swallowing me whole. All I can do is survive another day, and hope the next is better."

And that's too sad, so sad it makes Clarke gasp and reach up to rest a hand on Lexa's face.

"Lexa... life should be about more than just _surviving_."

And then the girl closes her eyes, brows pulled together in agony.

"Should it? Because sometimes, all I can think about is how Costia is the one of us who _didn't_ survive... Should we be able to enjoy life, after what we did? Do we _deserve_ to?"

She doesn't have an answer to that, because it's something she thinks about constantly, too. Her internet research tells her it's called ' _Survivor's Guilt_ ' but that doesn't seem quite right, because they didn't have to go through what Costia did. They were the reason it happened.

"Exactly. So that's why I'm 'deciding for you', even though it's _killing_ me. I barely made it through with Costia. If anything were to happen to you..." she says, and when she breathes out it's an ' _ahh_ ', a sound someone makes when they're in pure agony.

And Clarke doesn't argue back. She can't. Even if she tried, the lump in her throat would make it nearly impossible to speak.

Lexa's hand comes up, softly brushing Clarke's wet, curling hair away from her face and then resting it on the back of her head, pulling their faces together. Clarke thinks she's going to kiss her - but instead Lexa's lips fall on her forehead, and it's more painful and full of longing in it's innocent chasteness than a kiss to her lips ever could be.

She watches the Mustang pull away, watches it rumble down the street, watches as it turns a corner and dissapears.

She waits one minute, two, five, ten - willing it to come back around the corner.

It never does.

 

* * *

 

  
“Why does this school insist on doing _the most_ for any occasion, ever?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, nudging Raven’s shoulder with her own.

“Don’t be such a Debby Downer. Homecoming only comes once a year, I think you can muster up enough school spirit to partake in a little bit of fun.”

Raven frowns, crossing her arms and pouting, and it’s such an antithesis to the crimson red chiffon that wraps her body it makes Clarke laugh harder than she should be.

“Oh, shut up, Griffin! You’d be saying the same if you had Octavia as your date.”

Clarke’s laughter fades, her eyes finding Octavia a few steps away, standing by the refreshment table forlornly snacking on pretzels.

“You can’t blame her, Ray…”

Raven scoffs, throwing her hands in the air. “ _I can too_! How deluded did she have to be to think Lincoln would ask her? I mean, I know they were pretty cozy at the home opener…”

Clarke sighs, fingers twiddling with the clasp of her gold and white clutch. “It’s not even that, really. She thought he wasn’t going at all... only to show up and see him arm-in-arm with Anya Woods.”

Raven huffs, considering for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, you’re right – that is horrendously shitty.”

“Indeed.”

“Cherry Coke for m’lady?”

Clarke smiles at Bellamy as he emerges from the crowd and takes his offering, bringing the cup to her lips and taking a drink.

“Wow, I am absolutely parched! Thank you so much, Bell, I really appreciate the – oh, _would you look at that_? Turns out I don’t have a drink!” Raven interjects. “You know what? Screw this. I am not letting my homecoming go to waste just because my date is too busy eating her feelings,” she finishes, turning on her heel and stomping over to Octavia who looks up from the bowl of pretzels just in time for Raven to shake them out of her hand, grabbing her wrist and hauling her onto the dance floor in one swift motion.

Clarke chokes on her drink, sputtering a laugh out at the sight of Raven dancing in a circle around Octavia, her face pulled into a look of pure concentration.

Bellamy pats her back, trying to hold back laughter of his own to no avail.

“Wow… that is one hell of a woman, huh?”

“Yeah,” Clarke replies, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye, laughter now subsided. “She’s one hell of a something, alright.”

Music pounds around them, something upbeat and electronic, as the pair stand to the side and regard the party.

Arkadia had truly gone all out this year, Raven hadn’t been exaggerating – a curtain of lights and tulle strung high from the middle of the gymnasium spreads out to the edges of the room; lanterns hang at varying heights; streamers in their school colours of red, black and silver hang from every available spot, including the balloon arch at the entrance.

“Would you like to dance?” Bellamy asks. Clarke’s eyes widen, and when she looks at Bellamy he’s got on his crooked smirk.

“Very funny, Bell. You know how me and dancing get along…”

“Yeah, like a house on fire… literally. It’s horrific and should be avoided if possible.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Bellamy sighs, discarding his drink on the table behind them. “Clarke, this is your second to last Homecoming – who cares how you look when you’re dancing, as long as you have fun while you’re doing it?”

Clarke crosses her arms defiantly and shakes her head.

“Okay, new approach… this is _my_ last Homecoming.”

A long pause, where Clarke truly thinks Bellamy might just be staring a hole into the side of her head with how hard he’s looking.

“Damn it... _fine_. You’ve presented a very convincing argument, Mr. Blake.”

Bellamy turns and bows at the waist, presenting his hand to her with a flourish.

“I try my best, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke takes his hand and lets herself be dragged to the dancefloor, somewhat reluctantly. Octavia and Raven screech, crowding around the pair.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Clarke Griffin – dancing? Pinch me so I know it’s real!”

The music pounds beneath her feet, carrying her in a rhythm that feels much too liberating to worry about how awkward she might look. Song after song, she lifts her hands high above her head and lets both inhibitions and shame go.

Something starts to mend at the sight of her friends, surrounding her and laughing with her and loving her for the mess that she at times may be – in this moment, under the swirling lights that dance purple and blue around them, she is happy.

The current song comes to an end, transitioning almost immediately into something a bit slower, heavier on the guitars and a bit more melodic and Clarke takes the opportunity to step away for a moment – she taps Octavia’s shoulder and mimes taking a drink with her hand. The other girl throws her a thumbs-up, disappearing back into the crowd in seconds.

It takes a few moments of pushing and shoving, dodging other people as they try to pull her into their group or make conversation, before she’s broken through the crowd. It feels like she can finally breathe again, her skin hot and flushed – and she can’t remember a time in the past few months she’d felt as carefree.

Clarke is too focused on her shoes, watching her steps to ensure uncertain feet don’t trip over the tulle of her powder-blue dress, when she runs into her.

Silk flows black as night down her body, clinging to every dip and curve as if made for her alone, bottom hem just skimming the floor; a slit runs up the side, to the middle of her thigh as her leg peeks out from behind the flowing skirt; feet adorned in sharp stilettos the color of her dress; mahogany hair shining, large curls tumbling over her shoulders and framing her face.

Lexa Woods looks unequivocally lethal.

 

* * *

 

  
_Homecoming, freshman year…_

 

_“Oh my gosh, you have to come dance with us!”_

_Clarke sits perched in her chair, foot tapping against the floor, nursing a glass of fruit punch._

_“I can’t, Costia. You know that.”_

_The girl sighs, her hair pinned up into an immaculate bun, yellow dress like a beacon of sunshine in the otherwise darkened room._

_“Yes you can, you just won’t. Come on!”_

_She pulls at Clarke’s arm and manages to get her to her feet – with great resistance. She tries not to notice the smirk that pulls at the corner of Lexa’s mouth._

_“No, please. I can’t dance to this.”_

_“You can! Lex - you’re like, the gangliest person I know and even you can get down!”_

_“Thanks, Cos…”_

_“You know what I mean!” Costia’s face changes then, her eyebrows raising and mouth curling into an impish grin that has Clarke backing away from her quickly. “I have an idea…”_

_“Oh, no – how did I know you were going to say that?”_

_Costia throws her head back, a row of perfect, pearly-white teeth behind her red-painted lips as she laughs. “Just trust me… Lexa, dance with Clarke.”_

_Something catches in her throat, squeezing her lungs as she chokes out, “w-what?”_

_Lexa looks at Costia with an arched brow, and something passes between the two girls – a heavy meaning in their look Clarke can’t quite make out._

_“Dance with Clarke.”_

_Costia's hand wraps around Clarke’s wrist, pulling her forward and shoving her in Lexa’s direction – the girl acts quickly, hands darting out to steady her shoulders as she wobbles, feet not quite used to the feeling of high heels._

_For some reason, Clarke finds herself too wary to look back at Costia and instead studies Lexa’s face – her jaw clenched, eyes narrowed._

_Lexa looks down at her, forcing a smile and nodding toward the dancefloor._

_“Shall we?”_

_Clarke tries to mirror the beam, but she’s sure it comes out as more of a grimace. She feels... weird, for lack of a better term. This seems, to her, almost like a test… and she’s not quite sure if she’s meant to pass or fail._

_They find an empty spot somewhere just to the right of the crowd, away from the lights and tucked away. Clarke looks at Lexa wearily._

_“Hey, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to… we can hide over by the drink table until the song ends, go back and tell Costia you totally aced it and you’re an immaculate dancer.”_

_“No... I have a feeling she’s watching to make sure I’ve actually tried.”_

_Lexa looks up, over her head, and frowns a bit before looking back._

_“I’m not entirely sure that’s why she’s watching us.”_

_Clarke can't help but agree._

_She sighs, shaking her head and steeling herself, before placing her hands in Lexa’s – they’re warm and soft, and her thumbs run along the backs of Clarke’s hands in reassurance._

_The song changes, upbeat pop mixing and flowing into something much slower. All around them, students begin to couple up – across the dancefloor she can see Raven, Octavia, Finn and Bellamy. The boys have paired up, twirling each other clumsily along the floor as the girls move side-to-side in classic slow dance position – Raven’s hands on Octavia’s waist; Octavia's hands resting on Raven's shoulders._

_She’s so busy staring at their friend’s antics, it’s not until Lexa pulls her closer with one arm she realizes they’ve been moving._

_Lexa’s arm wraps around her waist. She throws a pointed look at Clarke’s right hand._

_“Rest it on my shoulder.”_

_“I… what?”_

_“Your hand… rest it on my shoulder.”_

_She does so, careful to only touch the parts of Lexa’s skin that are covered by the fabric of her dress._

_“Okay, now… just move your feet like I am, back and forth… woah, watch the toes!”_

_“Sorry, sorry!” Clarke groans, hanging her head._

_There’s a pause, and she cautiously looks up to find Lexa’s face pulled into a brilliant smile – so bright it’s a bit of a struggle to frown at her._

_“You’re laughing at me!”_

_Lexa shakes her head, adamant. “I’m not! You’re doing great, really. Just… have you ever slow-danced before?”_

_“I have, but it’s never been… like this.”_

_“Ahh,” she says, her tone empathetic. She nods to the side, pointing with her chin to the rest of the students, their positions mirroring Raven and Octavia’s. “You’re talking about that classic middle school, ‘stay at least a foot away and don’t make eye contact’ bullshit.”_

_Clarke gapes at her, trying not to let her smile show._

_“You know I’m right!” Lexa laughs, and the hand on Clarke’s back presses, pushing them further together. “You either end up not speaking at all, or talking about something stupid like… like your science homework, or whether you think Jasper actually brushed his hair for this.”_

_“And your verdict is?”_

_“I’m going to go with a hard no.”_

_Clarke can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up, shaking her head and looking down at their feet._

_Hushed conversation flows between them easily, Lexa seamlessly moving their discussions along and avoiding the dreaded silence Clarke hates so much._

_The song ends, drifting off and leading into yet another upbeat, electronic mash of noise. Clarke steps back with a jolt just in time for Costia to sidle up to them, her expression pulled into a sour frown._

_“Well… I take it you two had fun?”_

_She can only gape, mouth opening and closing and absolutely no words coming. Lexa covers flawlessly, discreetly grasping Costia’s hand – and she can only watch in confusion as the girl pulls her hand away._

_“We did, I think – after Clarke stopped stepping on my toes, that is.”_

_Costia smiles – a tight, insincere sneer that makes her feel uneasy._

_“Great. Excuse us, Clarke, but I think I’d like to go home now.”_

_Her voice is final, tone clipped as she looks pointedly to Lexa._

_“Oh! Right, of course we can go,” she stumbles. Costia brushes past Clarke, not sparing even a glance. She watches her cut through the crowd and out the front exit._

_“Clarke?” Lexa says, weary._

_“Yes?”_

_“I had a lovely time… dancing with you. You’re not as bad as you think.”_

_Lexa is so sincere, her eyes warm and genuine in the dim lighting._

_“I had a great teacher.”_

_A moment stretches between them, significant in ways neither has yet to know. Lexa turns, moving to push her way through the throng... but not before throwing a small wave and a smile behind her as she does._

(Later that night, once the makeup has been scrubbed off and heels are discarded to her bedroom floor, she marvels at the way Lexa’s crimson red dress had brought out shades of green in her eyes she never knew existed.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... here we are. What did you think? Tell me everything!
> 
> To keep a long story short, I was unable to write for many reasons for quite a long time. I have an endless well of apologies for the long wait, and I can only hope this chapter has made up for it a bit. Do you forgive me? :)
> 
> You can always catch me over on my Tumblr, astrangecupoftea, where I reblog 'lmr' aesthetics and answer all your questions and, every once in a while, post a little sneak peek for future chapters.
> 
> Thoughts? Feelings? Let me hear 'em. Until next time. x


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